


Convergence

by abovetheserpentine



Series: Divergence Series [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drama, F/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Violence, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-01-21 00:57:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21291068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheserpentine/pseuds/abovetheserpentine
Summary: An unexpected arrival forces Hermione to confront everything she left behind as well as everything she has to lose. How can she choose between the life that was ripped from her, and the life she made for herself as a result? It seems the boundaries of magic itself must be tested if Hermione’s to save anyone, anything, or anywhere at all. EWE. SEQUEL.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Remus Lupin, James Potter/Lily Evans Potter
Series: Divergence Series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1533824
Comments: 60
Kudos: 134





	1. Overture

**Author's Note:**

> Hi again! Wow, it's been over three years but I'm back!
> 
> Yes, yes, this is a sequel! Crazy stuff! I do love _Divergence_ so much, and I haven't written in a while. Part of me wanted to write a different sort of ending originally, so I guess in a way this is that ending... but like, a novel-length version (maybe! we'll see). Almost like fanfiction of my own fanfiction, which sounds horrendously full of myself when I think about it.
> 
> The good news is I'm much healthier now and all that jazz (long story, but it involves five surgeries and pills that help me get out of bed every morning). Unfortunately updates won't be nearly as frequent as last time, as I'm some sort of adult now and work full-time? Trust me, I don't get it, either. Let's hope the quality is slightly better as a result, but who knows!
> 
> It's probably handy to note that I've made Harry and Hermione people of colour in this story... it wasn't really pointed out whether or not they were in Divergence, but I wanted to make the distinction this time around. I think it's important.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this continuation! The title of this chapter comes from the song _Overture_ by Patrick Wolf.

Charlie Lupin slammed her bedroom door, its frame rattling with the force of her anger; the trinkets she kept in no particular order on her bookshelf trembled slightly as if in commiseration. She threw them a dark look, and one particular toy – a miniature Bowtruckle – shied away, cowed.

“I’m nearly of age,” the young girl muttered, tugging on her chocolate brown ponytail in irritation. She sat down heavily on her bed, its shimmering covers glinting in the light of the late afternoon sun pouring in through the open windows. “I don’t _ understand–_”

Her door burst open and Lottie whipped around, standing abruptly and feeling as if she had something to hide. _I don’t, I don’t, I’m as trustworthy as they come, why can’t she _ see _ that? _

Charlie’s mother was a fierce woman, and so it was with a deep breath that Charlie glared at her, pushing and pulling on this frail thread between them just for something to think of, some memory of her mother that meant she was _ hers_, Charlie’s and Charlie’s only.

“How dare you walk away from me?” Hermione Lupin exclaimed, and if Charlie didn’t know better she might almost think there was some kind of hurt in her tone – but no. Charlie’s words were nothing but a thorn in her mother’s side; a nuisance, a distraction from everyone and everything else. Besides, Charlie had never heard her mum hurt in her entire life. It just didn’t happen, did it? Not to Hermione Huxley, to whom the Wizarding World owed a great debt. Hurting _ her _ would probably send you straight to Azkaban. Charlie almost snorted out loud at the thought.

Instead, she turned her back on her mother, picking up one of the books on her bedside and plonking herself down onto her bed as if she were alone, picking a page at random and pretending to read in the hopes that she _ would _ be left alone.

There was a moment of silence and Charlie held her breath in hope, fear – some kind of amalgamation of the two – before the book disappeared from her hands. She looked up to see her mother’s wand aloft, and a stern look on her older face.

“I don’t understand,” Her mother began, slipping her wand into the waistband of her jeans, pale yellow t-shirt crinkled with the stress of the day, “What has gotten into you?”

A fire that Charlie hadn’t known existed within her bubbled over. She sat up, hands gripping her covers so tightly they might’ve ripped if they weren’t so strongly magically enchanted. “Into me?” she seethed, glaring harder than she ever had at her mother, “What’s gotten into _ you?_”

Hermione frowned, lips parted in apparent confusion.

“Since when am I five years old again?” snapped Charlie. She stood, fists clenched by her sides. If only she weren’t wearing her neon orange swimmers, she’d probably look as formidable as she ever could – she hadn’t exactly inherited that trait from her mother, whose frown had now cleared, face had turned stony. “I’ll be seventeen in June–”

“Which is ten months away, Lottie!”

“-and I’ve been to Ollie’s loads of times when his parents aren’t there. I don’t get the fuss, I really don’t–”

“Lottie–”

“It’s like… it’s like you don’t trust me or something!” Charlie blurted out, inhaling sharply when her mother’s eyes hardened. But instead of her voice rising, her wand spitting sparks and likely lighting her jeans on fire, Hermione suddenly sagged, the fight gone out of her without cause.

Well, Charlie wasn’t finished – just because Mum was old and tired and over it, didn’t mean that Charlie was going to lie down and let herself be walked over. She wasn’t Dad.

A voice somewhere deep inside of her swore at her for that, but Charlie was too angry to justify her own thoughts.

“Lottie, will you please just listen to me?” Hermione sighed, exasperated, looking as if her hair was expanding sideways by the second with the tension in the messy room.

“Why?” Charlie demanded, crossing her arms, arching up one of her thick eyebrows in question, “So you can keep me captive again? Cast your fancy spells and lock me away like I’m something to be ashamed of?”

Her mother looked like she’d bitten into an unfortunate Every Flavoured Bean, for all that she swallowed thickly, parting her lips as if unsure whether she needed to spit out the offending lolly or not. 

“Little Lottie Lupin, nowhere near as good enough as her dear old Mum – the Dark Conqueror, the Werewolf Who Could–”

“That’s enough.” Hermione said darkly, striding forward until Charlie was but two feet from her. Her tone was deathly calm, and the fatigue from before had vanished. Charlie often wondered how her mother, shrill and nagging and without an ounce of understanding in her bones could have defeated Lord Voldemort. This was the first time she’d seen, perhaps, what he had seen – someone who would not back down. A warrior.

Charlie dug her fingernails into her palms, nerves flying through her at a rate of knots. Her mother continued, tone steady. “I’ve asked you not to use those names in this house.”

She had, and Charlie had never used them before – not to her parents, not to her friends… there was something unreal about your mother having titles, and it wasn’t simply the spoken rule that had stopped her from uttering what Mum’s sycophants stumbled over eagerly when in her presence. But the rule was there all the same, and there was a reason Charlie had never been sorted into Gryffindor.

She stepped away, uncrossing her arms and looking at her toes, feeling the closeness of her mother and yet also the deepening chasm between them. Another fight, another loss, and another moment in which Charlie counted down to the day when she could leave this house.

Her heart panged painfully. Dad didn’t deserve that, but what else was Charlie to do? Stay in a prison of her own making? Change her name to Lottie Huxley, the boring and spineless Hufflepuff daughter of the Lightbringer? That’s how everyone saw her, anyway. Everyone except Ollie.

_ Merlin, the names are bloody stupid, aren’t they? _Charlie mused miserably. She thought Ollie would have laughed – but how was she to know, when her mother wouldn’t let her see him for the rest of the summer break?

“You’re to stay at Cheldon Farm until term starts,” Hermione announced, pursing her lips, “It’s three days. I’m sure Oliver can survive without you for at least that long.” She looked like she might say something else but simply nodded and turned from Charlie, leaving the room in a bounce of frizzy curls and a waft of perfume – soft bergamot, a lingering aroma of thyme on the nose in its wake. The familiarity of it brought tears to her eyes and as the door closed behind Hermione, Charlie collapsed onto her bed and began crying silently into her pillow, the constellations on its case jumping away from the growing damp. The bull belonging to Taurus huffed, causing a few stars to shift out of place. 

As she turned onto her back and gazed up at the enchanted ceiling of her bedroom – an eternally twinkling night sky – she wondered whether this would ever change. Her, alone in her room and wishing for anything but this; and her mother, already onto the next great thing, her daughter packaged up in a neat little box labelled ‘for another day’.

The worry was, Charlie wasn’t entirely sure that the day would ever come.

Then, like the final nail in the coffin, she heard the faint _pop_ of Apparition sound from her window. Mum was gone.

\---

“Wizen Huxley,” began Fowley, his thin face gaunt in the light of the court room’s iron candelabra, which hung large and imposing from the centre of the ceiling, “Despite what others might believe, you are not the head of your department and as such do not have the authority to propose this reform until Wizen Bones has given her revisionary signature.”

The Wizengamot members on either side of Fowley gave her wary looks – it was not in Hermione’s nature to be patient in the courts, and it was also not in her nature to suffer fools lightly. And everyone knew that Fowley was a fool, who felt the Wizengamot was more for show and status than for actual law reform.

“Have I not just explained, Wizen Fowley, that due to Bones being on long term service leave for the next six months, I therefore am acting on her behalf as Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement? That her signature is not needed, and I may propose the reform without it?” Hermione arched an eyebrow, gaze cold.

The dark stone of the room’s walls glinted in the candlelight, and as Fowley grumbled something inconsequential, she quickly looked down at her battered leather watch.

_ Remus won’t be happy, _she thought tiredly, noting that it was hours past when she’d told him to expect her home. She could just picture Lottie staring into her roast chicken mulishly, her husband trying to cheer her up but not doing much good – after all, he would be cross with her as well.

Hesitating – because this was almost the last thing that Hermione wanted to do – she spoke with reluctance, “If you so wish to delay further, I am sure that Wizen Bones will acquiesce to a signature upon my asking despite her leave, after which we can proceed with all formalities in check and hopefully to the conclusion of your filibustering.” There was a murmur throughout the high-ceilinged room – it was most unlike her to relent, but it was just after nine o’clock on a Saturday night and the rest of the Wizengamot members were sure to forget about this unique show of submission with a few night caps and the warm summer’s night. At least, Hermione hoped.

The triumphant look on Fowley’s face would have had Hermione’s cheeks burning with rage years ago – now she simply waved her wand and waited for the click of her suitcase’s locks, standing once everything was in order and waiting for the members to quiet so as to say, “Court is now in recess. Go home, everyone.”

Turning on her heel, Hermione strode down her aisle of the room’s amphitheatre-like rows of seats and flew down the stairs before the other members had even begun to stand. Departing the court room, she smiled hurriedly at Nishioka manning the front desk of the department – “I rather think you ought to call it a day!” she threw over her shoulder with a short laugh – and came to a stop before the lift. Like it had known she was coming – and perhaps it had – she had stood still for less than a handful of seconds when the doors clanged open. Pressing the button for level eight and arriving in under a minute, Hermione barely heard “Level Eight: Ministry of Magic Atrium.” from the woman overhead as she hastily, nearly at a run, made her way to the fireplaces adorning the right side of the empty room.

Her low-heeled loafers clacked softly on the polished wooden floors, and then with a cry of “Cheldon Farm!” she was whisked away in a burst of familiar emerald green flames.

Stepping out into her living room, she felt the warmth of Remus’s wards settle into her clammy skin, though it was not an altogether unpleasant feeling; tonight, it felt a tad overwhelming however, for she knew what awaited her.

Pulling out her wand and waving it wearily over her person, Hermione watched as her brown suitcase – engraved with _ HJL _ under the handle – zoomed through the doorway and up the stairs in the hall, followed closely by her Wizengamot robes, the silver ‘W’ emblazoned on purple a blur as it flew by. She waved her wand again; her pleated trousers and cream silk button-down transfigured into her comfortable jeans and t-shirt. She would not ordinarily transfigure her clothing like this, but it had been a last-minute call to the Ministry with the attempted escape of an Azkaban prisoner. Once Hermione had spoken with James and Gerdie at the Auror office, the Wizengamot had been called to session and Hermione had figured she would bring up her Magical Minor Protection Law reform proposal, considering she had previously been pushed to the following Thursday.

Fowley had stalled again so it hadn’t been worth much, much to Hermione’s disappointment and growing apprehension.

The house was quiet, which wasn’t at all unheard of, but it _ was _ the last Saturday before term began and if there was no full moon – _ thank Merlin it’s on the 6__th__, _ Hermione thought – usually Remus was embarrassing Lottie with ABBA, or burning off his own eyebrows with their games of Exploding Snap. Harry would sometimes join them if James wasn’t harbouring him away on some lads’ trip somewhere, already feeling the separation anxiety. Unfortunately for her, Hermione felt keenly in the moment she entered the kitchen to see Remus at the tidy dinner table, tumbler in hand – James and Harry were on said trip, somewhere in Ireland.

Her husband’s eyes were sharp, unaffected by the alcohol he’d been consuming. _ Right, _ Hermione surmised, _ this is going to be brutal. _

Mustering up her courage and the remains of her lucidity, Hermione walked further into the kitchen and took the glass from Remus’s lax grip, sculling the last sip of firewhisky in silence. Remus’s right hand came up to grasp at her waist, as if to remind her he was there. She bit her lip as she set the glass back down unceremoniously, shifting to face Remus’s stare head on.

“That’s the fourth night this week,” He murmured, and the fact that there was no accusation in his tone is what made Hermione crack. Bending at the knees suddenly as if someone had sliced cleanly through her tendons, Hermione leant forward and rested her forehead in Remus’s thick sandy brown hair, inhaling sharply and trying not to cry.

“I know,” Hermione croaked, hoping that Remus would be blaming it on the firewhisky, “I–”

But she didn’t quite know what to say. There was no excuse. She had her reasons, of course – and Remus knew all of these by heart – and yet the calm recitation of fact, the burning of her daughter’s eyes this afternoon… it all hit her in one fell swoop and Hermione was worried her head might burst open trying to balance everything, a pros and cons list gone completely out of control. 

“Hermione,” Remus said softly, gently taking a hold of her shoulders and standing. “_Hermione,_” he repeated as she pushed her head even further into where it had fallen onto his collarbones. Pausing in her quest to remain hidden in her husband, Hermione lifted her head slowly, gazing up into his mossy green eyes in askance – a “how do I fix this?" on her lips. 

A hand came up to push her unruly hair out of her face and stayed there, Remus's thumb caressing the shell of her ear as he spoke, “Did you go for your morning run today?”

“Yes,” Hermione whispered, eyes closing as she let her shoulders fall from their tensed hunching, “When you were out feeding the chickens.”

It went unsaid that despite her attempt to combat her restlessness before the full moon, Hermione still could not get rid of the spell in her veins – the need for action, for pushing, for _ doing_. Work only made it worse, and yet work was the only thing that sated the call.

“Then perhaps this is simply a matter of priority,” Remus said, and when he pulled away from her, she felt his absence like bare feet on a cold winter’s night – icy, through to the bone, a warmth that would be difficult to accomplish once more. Not without help.

“You’ve forbidden our daughter to visit her friends until school starts up again,” Remus reminded her as he scooped up the tumbler and deposited it in the sink. “And yet you refuse to spend time with her.” He turned around, leaning back against the polished wood of the kitchen counter. His professor’s stare was perturbing, and he knew it. “With me.” He added after a pause, and the sharp retort came up out of her throat before she could process what was happening.

“I don’t ‘refuse’,” she snapped, “She hates me.”

“She’s your daughter,” His tone was one of bafflement, like that fact alone should belie her declaration.

“Daughters aren’t bound to love their mothers, Remus,” scowled Hermione, ignoring the pang in her chest at the thought, the words leaving her as easily as her pointed barbs at her friends in their Hogwarts years – uncharacteristically cruel, honest to the point of painful. It was a weapon she rarely used and that bore no physical scars, its only injury the guarded look in one’s eyes when they looked at her after that.

“Yes,” Remus said loudly, as if she were completely missing the point. He pushed off from the counter to stand tall, frowning, “but she’s _ your _ daughter. _ Ours. _ She couldn’t possibly hate you.”

Hermione’s heart gave an odd sort of twitch, and she sat down heavily to mask it from her countenance. Lottie _ was _ Hermione’s daughter in all the ways one might think; dark-skinned, unruly-haired, stubborn, clever, discerning – but Hermione remembered how people used to view her when she was at Hogwarts. Annoying, arrogant, waspish… Lottie had Remus’ kindness, his loyalty, but those could not unburden her of her less desirable traits – and Hermione had been the one to give them to her, along with the unwanted attention of having famous parents. She knew why Lottie hated her, and what made it all the worse was that a small part of Hermione agreed with her daughter. So wasn’t it the kindest act, the most suitable thing, to leave her alone?

Despite all of that, all of the confusion and burdens and history, Hermione loved her daughter. Loved her more than anything, so much that it didn’t quite matter if Lottie hated her. But somehow she couldn’t leave her alone, despite its advantages; and so, the present.

“You work too hard,” Remus said, nudging her out of her thoughts, frowning more deeply, “You know it, and yet you keep working late, taking on more responsibilities.”

“There’s always something to be done!” Hermione rushed to explain, flinging her hands about like she was playing charades, trying to articulate ‘something’. “I’m the Deputy Head, Remus, a lot of things fall to me when Amelia’s not here.”

“Then you delegate,” Remus said sharply, eyes narrowing, “That’s what happens when you get promoted. The lesser tasks fall to those beneath you.” 

“No task is lesser!” Hermione exclaimed, standing, glaring at Remus, “These are laws! People’s lives!”

“And this is your daughter’s life!” Remus shouted, and Hermione reared back in shock – raised voices were not common in their fights; even their _ fights _ were not common. Lily, who shouted herself hoarse at James, always sounded good-naturedly jealous when Hermione would relay their easy conflict resolution. But tonight…

“I understand it,” said Remus, calmer now and running a scarred hand over his face. Hermione’s eyes roved over it hungrily, desperately wishing for this whole thing to end. It was close, she could sense it. “I understand _ you. _ But Charlie is sixteen – _ sixteen, _ Hermione – and she can’t possibly understand. She doesn’t know what you’ve gone through, what you’ve done for the world–”

“For her!” Hermione cried, abruptly holding back tears, her verbal victory stolen from her just as suddenly, “All for her!”

“Then show it,” Remus replied, tone level, “Show her that Hermione _ Granger _ does everything for her daughter.”

It was quiet but for the cicadas on the farm, the acres of land not large enough to lessen their persistent croaks. Hermione wondered, as if from outside of her own body, whether Lottie could hear every word spoken between them. Hermione’s past, laid out on a silver platter; the ruins of her failures, the façade of Hermione Huxley, ready and waiting to be split open at the seams beyond repair.

“Don’t,” Hermione said shakily, horrified at her thoughts and turning away from Remus, tears falling now, “Not tonight, please, I–”

He strode across the room, around the table. She tensed for only a moment before his arms enveloped her, squeezing tightly. “I love you,” He whispered into her ear. Hermione pulled back to look into his concerned eyes, seeing nothing else but knowing there was more to this than a declaration of well established love. “And I’m sorry, I am. I love you more than I can possibly articulate.”

He swallowed, and Hermione shut her eyes tightly, preparing for it.

“But this world doesn’t need saving, not anymore. You can let go,” he whispered, Hermione’s heart a battering ram against her ribs. “Voldemort is dead. You made sure of that.”

_ But Harry and Ron didn’t. _ A familiar voice piped up from the back of her rushing flow of thoughts. Like a seed, it had planted itself deep, echoing. _ Harry and Ron didn’t. _

Harry and Ron, who were eighteen years old, both of them graduated from Hogwarts. Harry, unburdened of fame and war wounds, who played reserve for the Tutshill Tornadoes, who was dating Ginny Weasley – something that made Hermione’s throat constrict painfully. Ron, who was training in the Strategy team in the Aurors and still couldn’t look Hermione in the eyes without flushing scarlet.

Harry, who called her his ‘scary Aunt Hermione’. Ron, who still said Mrs Lupin whenever she dropped by The Burrow for recipe or two off of Molly, even if Remus was more of the cook.

The two of them, like nephews… but also strangers.

“Every time I glimpse Harry using a quill, or a fork, I think I’m going to see ‘I must not tell lies’ on the back of his hand,” Hermione said, opening her eyes, Remus looking blurry through her tears, “I don’t know when it got this bad. I was fine, it was all fine, and then–” 

“Then Charlie started Hogwarts,” Remus finished for her, his mouth twisting a little like she perhaps should have known this already, “And Harry and Ron grew older, seemed different to you. And we don’t see our friends as much, because we’re all incredibly busy and tired and old.”

He pushed her hair away from her face, a favourite gesture of his, and continued on, “It’s easy to forget what we won that day in 1978, when all you see are reminders of what you lost. Hermione,” he added after a pause, “I think it’s time to tell Charlie. Maybe even Harry and Ron.”

“No,” Hermione said quickly, sobering, thinking of Ron’s disbelieving laugh, Harry’s awkward, wide-eyed stare. Lottie… Hermione could not even imagine it. Didn’t want to. “Already too many people know.”

“They’ve all been sworn to secrecy,” countered Remus, raising his eyebrows sceptically, “I think if they’d blabbed about it, we’d be seeing the evidence on the front page of _ The Daily Prophet._” 

The mention of the accursed newspaper (“More like tabloid, honestly,” Hermione had once scoffed after seeing a piece on her supposed love affair with Fowley sprawled across the second page news, Remus laughing into his morning hot chocolate) seemed to deflate the both of them. It was late and though Hermione – with a sudden vengeance – refused to go into the Ministry tomorrow, she was still exhausted. It had been an awfully long day, and the thought of the next did not instil any more energy into her. It would be another long day, filled with stony silences from Lottie and exasperated sighs from Remus, even if they were on alright terms.

There was only so much, Hermione mused as they both got dressed for bed – Remus in plaid boxers and an old Tornadoes t-shirt, and Hermione in her softest top and shorts – that an endlessly patient man like her husband could withstand.

“I love you,” Hermione murmured once they’d been settled for a while, lifting their joined hands to her lips and kissing the back of Remus’s. His half-lidded eyes crinkled softly at the sides, the flecks of grey at his temples signs of a life well-lived and not the stress of suffering endless full moons alone with no best friends for company. Regardless of what happened between the two of them – and the thought made Hermione’s gut churn painfully – he would always have that. A happiness no one else could touch.

Somehow, between one soft kiss and the next, Hermione fell asleep. Her dreams were of old friends and new, with flashes of purple in between, Lottie’s face swirling in the darkness.

When she awoke, it still felt like she was in a dream. She stared into the receding black of her bedroom for her daughter, even though she now registered a cool draught drift over her, like someone had left a window open– 

Hermione shifted up onto her elbows, bleary-eyed, to see that the window was not open, but that what had caused her to wake was the presence of a familiar figure just by the foot of her warm, comfortable bed.

“Harry?” Hermione mumbled, squinting through the darkness. Her nephew’s glasses glinted in the light of the night’s three-quarter moon shining through the gap in Hermione’s curtains. “What are you doing here?” A sudden thought struck her then and she sat up fully, worried. “Are your parents alright?”

“My parents?” Harry asked as Hermione fumbled for the wand on her bedside. He huffed quietly, toeing around the bed and moving closer to her side. “Forget it. We don’t have time for this, we’ve got to go.”

“Hang on,” She frowned, quite alert now. “_Lumos._”

She could see only sunken cheeks – a paleness beneath the brown – and the silver of her best friend’s lightning bolt scar before his calloused palm covered her fingers, his softly spoken “_Nox._” seeming to echo in Hermione’s ears as her now extinguished wand was gently pried from her grip, loose with shock.

Both of them were quiet. Hermione couldn’t imagine what Harry saw, what he might be thinking. What even prompted him to try and wake her, when he must’ve seen–?

“Ron’s got him downstairs,” explained Harry at the sharp turn of Hermione’s head. Her eyes fell on the empty space beside her in bed, “At wandpoint, if you want to get technical. Think he went down for a midnight snack. _ Still,_” He added hastily at Hermione’s parted lips, squeezing her fingers. There was no comfort there, not like there might have been had it been her nephew Harry, a little too cocky for his own good but well-meaning. “Better to be careful.”

Hermione stared at Harry in the dark, trying to find the green eyes she knew so well. It’d been so long since they looked so tired. Not in this world. She didn’t ever think she’d see this again, and while she’d been struggling to keep it together more recently, a larger part of her had been glad. She’d done so much just to erase this look from her friend’s face. Now her nephew, she could smooth back the hair from his forehead and his brown skin was clear. He might‘ve scrunched up his face, blush a little… but _ this _ Harry just cradled her wrist, swallowing loudly. 

“_Harry,_” Hermione said thickly, because there was nothing else _ to _ be said. She couldn’t believe it – she wasn’t sure she wanted to, because surely this meant she’d completely lost it – but she was helpless to let him pull at her elbow anyway, the two of them shuffling hastily through the house and down the stairs until they reached the kitchen.

“Hermione,” Ron greeted her from across the room, the oak dinner table between them. His dirt-smudged face made his grin look whiter than she could remember it being, though her memory was decades old now. “It really is you. Blimey.”

“Hermione,” Remus interrupted, eyeing the wand that was still pointed at him, Ron’s aim true despite his apparent happiness to see her. “What’s going on?” He stared at her, and it took her a few seconds – long, torturous, humiliating, and shameful seconds – to remember that they had a child, and that she was sleeping, hopefully soundly, upstairs. Despite their grievances, Hermione had enough faith in her sixteen year old daughter to know that she could take care of herself; nevertheless, the situation was an unknown. Perhaps if she could convince her two friends to lower their wands, she could send an inconspicuous Patronus to her daughter, urging her to sneak downstairs and use the Floo to get to Oliver’s. No matter that Hermione had denied her that exact thing only the day previous, desperate to spend more time with her growing daughter but unable to follow-through.

“Do we need the wands?” Hermione asked as politely as she could, hoping that they couldn’t detect the slight tremble in her voice. Gently pulling her elbow from Harry’s grasp and ignoring his furrowed brows, she continued, “I’ll fix us some tea, if you give me a moment.”

“We don’t really have time for that,” Ron told her, but he lowered his wand anyway, “As brilliant as that sounds, actually.”

“Ron–”

“Right, yeah,” Ron nodded, waving Harry off, “I’m getting there. Anyway, Hermione, it’s time to come back, yeah? You’ve got to wake up.”

“Wake up?” Hermione echoed, and her heart started to beat double time, like a couple of bongo drums in the night, eerie but pulse-quickening.

“From this dream, or whatever it is.” He extrapolated. Remus looked at him incredulously. “Merlin knows how we got into your head, but we’ve got to go.”

“Don’t really know how we’re going to get out,” Harry continued, and Hermione turned to look at him. He smiled wryly, giving a little shrug, “But that’s sort of a habit with us now.” 

There were a few seconds where Hermione’s overworked brain couldn’t quite seem to grasp what it was witnessing – but only a few, and then it started whirring, thoughts toppling over one another faster than she could possibly voice them. 

_ Harry and Ron are dead. _ Came the first. _ Are they Death Eaters? _ Came the second. _ Something worse? Why would this be happening now? What could they want? They don’t know Lottie’s in the house, thank Merlin, but Remus- _

Hermione’s eyes caught her husband’s, up against the kitchen counter, both hands white knuckling its edge. 

But her mind continued to race, the possibilities of the evening endless. Was it a dream, perhaps, after the night she’d had? Some conjuring of her innermost thoughts, desperate daydreams gone mad? A prank? Her nephew would never – could never. Like Remus had confirmed the night before, the only people who were aware of Harry and Ron as she first knew them were the Marauders, Marlene McKinnon, and Harry’s very own mother. Everyone else thought she’d been orphaned, tutored at home before the death of her non-existent parents. Bitten by a werewolf in the aftermath. Listless, until she’d become an assistant teacher at Hogwarts. Defeated Voldemort. Married Remus Lupin.

But it was Hermione Huxley who had done all of those things.

Hermione Granger was no more, and this stark reminder of the woman’s existence left Hermione speechless, just like Remus’s proclamation last night. _ Not tonight, _ she’d said. Hermione wanted to laugh, something incredulous and unhinged.

“I think this might be a bit of a misunderstanding,” Remus began courteously, lifting his hands as if to show he had no weapon. Harry and Ron knew, though, that his reflexes were quicker than most, his strength greater. The element of surprise he might be going for would be fruitless, though he was not to know. _ Not now, _ she thought as tears sprung to her eyes.

“Yeah, you might say that,” Ron said roughly, his pleasant smile fading away as he eyed Remus, wand rising to point at him again, “Personally, I think it’s a bit wrong to be wearing the face of a dead man, but somehow it seems just fine with you. Big, fat misunderstanding, if you ask me.”

Remus heaved a sigh not unlike those he gave Lottie at her most troublesome, his frown small but imposing. She supposed, to him, that this was his nephew and his nephew’s best mate. He surely wasn’t thinking that _ her _ dead friends had returned to her decades after she’d left them in another dimension, right after they’d discussed them. No. Remus was too logical for that – and so was she. “I’m not dead.”

“No,” Harry announced, and he sounded angry instead of the tired resignation that Hermione remembered him to hold when she was nineteen. Twenty-one years ago now. _ Merlin. _ “You’re not. But Remus Lupin is, and we don’t take kindly to disguises.”

“Harry,” Hermione interrupted, not knowing how else to stop whatever was about to happen. She touched his left forearm gently, inhaling sharply at the release of tension that came with it. She’d forgotten how much they’d all relied on each other, the trust that came so easily to the three of them. Her heart throbbed suddenly, missing them ardently even though they were right in front of her.

_ Are they? _

“Harry, please,” Hermione started again, licking her lips as if it would relieve her of her dry mouth. It only served to make her voice come out a little scratchy and strained. “This is… it’s just not what you think. _ Please._”

His green eyes searched hers for a moment, the lightning bolt scar intersecting his right eyelid and giving the impression to anyone who did not know him that he was war-weary and hardened. Those things might have been true, but Hermione knew her best friend – and this _ was _ her best friend, as she remembered him all those years go. How could it not be? Hermione rarely took stock in unexplainable things; there was always a reason for something. There had to be a reason for this.

She found, however, that in that moment she could not seem to muster up the appropriate level of suspicion, nor the right kind of wariness. Instead, as Harry looked at her and as she gazed upon him, there was only a feeling of rightness. This was Harry, with all of his inexplicable softness, his awkward hunch of shoulders. And if it surely was, then that was her other best friend, messy red hair and pale skin, across the room. The two of them, returned to her like a rather miraculous sort of gift.

The tears fell of their own volition, it seemed, and in her next breath Harry had wrapped his slim arms around her, his sharp and stubbled jaw pushing into her temple as she wracked with uncontrollable sobs.

“I- I-”

“It’s alright,” he whispered softly, and she thought for a second that the dampness of his own tears were falling into her knotty curls, even though he didn’t sound choked up and his body showed no signs of a tremble or shake, not like hers. But it was hard to tell, embracing so closely. “We’re here.”

Another pair of arms – more muscular but also longer – came around the two of them, and Ron rested his chin softly on the top of Hermione’s head, his broad palm rubbing comfortingly up and down her left arm, the other on Harry’s right.

“I’m so sorry,” Hermione hiccoughed, inhaling sharply as she shook her head, forehead buried into Harry’s Adam’s apple, “I didn’t mean to go, I didn’t-”

“We know you would never leave us, not intentionally,” Ron reasoned softly. He snorted suddenly, jarring the three of them, “Not like me, the biggest prat of them all.”

“Shut up,” Harry laughed, and they all pulled apart at once. Hermione gave them both what she was sure was a watery smile, dragging her knuckles across the underside of her eyes and trying not to let the lump in her throat stop her from speaking, explaining everything–

“_Expelliarmus!_” A voice rang out, and Hermione snapped her head in time to see Remus’s outstretched fingers close firmly over three wands, his right arm held aloft with his own. The expression on his face was fierce, and Hermione couldn’t believe she had momentarily forgotten he was there at all. In the face of her old friends, everything else sort of fell away.

“Remus–” began Hermione, but he shot her a displeased frown, and her heart sank a little.

“Who are you?” He demanded, lowering the hand with the three wands and taking a commanding step forward. “What do you want?”

“_Remus,_” Hermione pleaded and, knowing that he would not curse her – not even if he thought she _ wasn’t _ her – she walked over to her husband, ignoring his slight flinch when her tired fingers encased his wrist tenderly and brought his wand arm down to their sides. Her left hand moved to caress his cheek and his eyes fluttered closed of their own accord, a kind of relief flooding through the both of them at the contact. “Trust me. It’s alright. They’re real.” She exhaled on a soft laugh, “_They’re real._”

“Of course we’re bloody real,” she heard Ron gripe, “You think I’d be in these clothes if we weren’t?”

A muffled _ thwap _ sounded, like the slap of skin on skin.

“Harry,” Hermione started, “Ron,” Turning around and gripping Remus’s hand tightly over their wands, she smiled as she led her husband over to them, squeezing his knuckles when his feet dragged a little, likely in nervous caution. “Remus. It’s Remus, you know him.”

A worried indent buried itself into Harry’s brow, and Ron looked between him and his old Defence Against The Dark Arts professor as if waiting for someone to throw a punch.

“Remus,” Hermione tilted her neck back slightly to catch his eye, “These are my friends. The ones we spoke about.” She was begging him, almost, to understand. _ Please, _ she plead in silence, _ let me have this. _

“Been saying much?” Harry quipped, and Ron snorted.

Hermione grinned, and it felt wholly unnatural on her older face – like she had gone back in time; but no, she knew exactly what _ that _ felt like.

No, it was as if her younger self was somehow possessing her older body, the heightened emotions of her teen years infiltrating her dying cells and refusing to let a silly thing like age diminish her ability to talk with her young friends again.

“Only how awful you both are,” countered Hermione, and somehow that seemed to set Harry’s shoulders at ease. He strode forward, ignoring Remus’s now rigid stance, and engulfed his older friend in a hug not unlike the one he had given Hermione.

“It’s good to see you,” He said, muffled against Remus’s shoulder. Pulling back, he kept his arms on Remus’s, eyes flitting over his lightly scarred face appraisingly. “You look… well.”

“He’s not dead, that’s a big plus,” Ron said, and clapped Remus heavily on the shoulder, smiling, “Great to see, that.”

Hermione moved closer to her best friend, squeezing his hip in thanks as Remus pulled his mouth into what he supposed was a smile, but was more of a deranged, wide-eyed grimace.

“Let’s sit down,” said Hermione, taking the wands from Remus and giving them back to their owners before tugging on Remus’s hand and pulling him to the side of the table closest to the door. The kitchen was a little small, but with only two of them most of the year they didn’t feel its tight corners and battered table edges.

With four, however, it was a tight fit; Hermione’s left arm was almost on top of Remus’s, and her own legs were entangled with Harry’s, who sat across from her. Ron, who no doubt was thankful to be sitting in a relatively safe place, was leaning back in his chair with his arm around the back of Harry’s, the perfect picture of relaxation. There was a gleam in his eye, though, that Hermione glimpsed as she turned her head to gauge Remus. Something akin to calculation – like he was trying to figure out the next move in a chess game. Like Remus was a piece he’d forgotten was on the board.

“Hermione,” Remus said lowly, bending his head in a manner that made it clear his words were only for her. In the muted hum of late night, however, it was rather pointless. “Everything we have ever experienced tells me this isn’t right.”

Hermione chewed at the inside of her left cheek with uncertainty, but then something flooded into her, like she'd been suddenly possessed. Or perhaps, instead, this foreign thing that had taken over her was a new-found sense of purpose, a call of ‘you’re needed, you matter to more than just the little bubble you’ve created’.

Hermione’s eyes flitted between the men across from her, assessing. Harry was gazing intently at her, his lips quirking into a small smile when he saw her looking. His scar encompassed a large portion of his face. Its growth had stopped with the final death of Voldemort, but it would always be the first thing people noticed about him. She focused in on the most jagged branch, which crooked sharply right on the slight bump in his nose – just as she remembered, now that it was right in front of her. A detail so small and easily forgotten over twenty years that someone would have to have dived right into the deep recesses of her mind to extract it.

Her head angled to look at Ron, his freckles stark against his pale skin. He didn’t smile or change his expression in any way when their eyes caught. Instead, Ron simply looked back, his gaze moving over her face as if _ he _ was cataloguing the differences, not her. _ He probably is, _ Hermione thought, and a rush of affection swelled in her chest, like the pride of a teacher but inexplicably more intimate.

She dropped her stare to his forearms. Partly obscured, the criss-cross of silver-white lines were there, the evidence of a night not so easily forgotten in the Department of Mysteries.

“Was it right,” Hermione whispered back, turning her eyes back to Remus, “when I turned up in 1977?”

There was a beat before he answered. “We solved that mystery, Hermione,” he reasoned, and he placed his left hand on her thigh comfortingly, squeezing as if to emphasise the importance of this difference. “That was a magic explained. Can you tell me that you’re able to do the same with this?” His head gestured minutely to Harry and Ron, but it seemed her friends had had enough of playing dumb.

“We’ve got an explanation,” Harry said calmly, though there was an impatient look on his face, “But we’re running out of time. The spell,” he added, turning so that it was clear he was addressing her and only her, “it has a time limit. We’ve got seventeen hours to bring you back to where we performed it, or you’ll be lost forever.”

“Think it means we can’t use the spell again, but there’s no way we’re taking that chance,” said Ron, shifting forward so that both of his elbows rested on the tabletop. He and Harry were almost mirrored. He hesitated for a split second before reaching forward to cover her hand with his own. Hermione saw Remus look down at it impassively and placed her free hand over the one resting on her thigh, as if to say that it was alright. This was how they did things.

It was easy to forget that the three of them had had their own little language. _ Probably why it hurt so much to lose them, _ Hermione thought; though it was a rather inane one. Losing your two best friends, the only two people you would have died for, would have been the worst pain imaginable regardless of any kind of secret handshake the three of them might have concocted.

_ It was more than that, _ she told herself, _ and you know it. _

“Losing you to Greyback was hell, Hermione,” Ron admitted, his tone subdued. The air between them felt as if they’d elevated thousands of feet, like the trembling breaths Hermione was aching for were a result of altitude sickness. “Neither of us can do that again. We couldn’t even do it the first time.”

Harry placed his own hand on top of their two, all of their fingers interlocking like Borromean rings. Something in his eyes was wrong, though. He shifted, his mouth twisting in discomfort. 

“What did you do?” Hermione asked darkly, squeezing their joined hands tightly. Her two friends winced, though Harry did a better job of hiding it. “What have you done?”

“Nothing you wouldn’t have,” answered Harry, abandoning his guilt and instead glaring stubbornly at her, like her dawning horror was completely undeserved, “We’re not bloody stupid.”

“Hermione,” Remus interrupted, and the spell was broken. She whipped her head to him, shaking her unkempt hair out of her mouth after the motion. “You’re the most brilliant witch I know, but this is neither of our specialties. Let’s Floo-call Marlene.” His eyes brightened. “Or even J-”

“Ron,” Hermione cut through him, willing Remus to be quiet. _ James. James is here. Harry’s father. Lily, his mother. Sirius, the closest thing he _ had _ to a father. Dumbledore. _ Snape! _ Oh, Merlin. _

It was these realisations that finally gifted Hermione her resolve. How could she say no, when her best friend would be faced with all those who were important to him? And yet they didn’t know him, not as he knew them. Sirius, who would have no idea what Harry had gone through, could not imagine the pain he’d felt at his loss. 

She had not divulged the realities of her friends’ deaths to them, particularly in Peter’s case. _ Oh, Peter, _ Hermione bemoaned silently. How could Harry ever understand? How could Ron? She knew, _ she knew_, that it would be a mistake to mention Harry’s parents, their – _ her _ – friends. Remus was shock enough, but all of them? Dumbledore, who had destroyed the horcruxes with her in the 70’s and would not fathom the choices he had made to raise Harry only to know he would lead him to his death? Or perhaps he would – which would be the most terrible realisation of them all, that Dumbledore would send Harry to the Forbidden Forest to die not only once, but twice. Three times, even. Endlessly, if it meant that Voldemort would be vanquished.

No, Hermione decided, she could not reveal this life to them. She could not expose them to this, only to rip it all away when she returned with them. And she would, she really would – because everything she did, she did for Lottie. Lottie wanted to be rid of her, and here was a solution, ready-made. Hermione would go back to the running and the fighting, and Lottie would be free of her. Remus would have his friends, so much more than he’d ever had. He’d be _ alive. _

She could not pretend it was an entirely selfless decision, but Hermione was nothing if not practical. She would lose so much, but–

Hermione looked between Ron, wide-eyed with expectance, and Harry, the darkest circles she could ever remember hanging dutifully under his green eyes. _ Lily’s eyes. _

“Ron,” Hermione managed to say past the lump in her throat, “Let’s go.”

“Hermione!” Remus exclaimed.

“Brilliant,” Ron announced almost simultaneously, standing with a victorious smile.

Harry eyed her, but Hermione was staring at her redheaded friend vehemently, wishing he’d hurry things along.

“Hang on,” Harry started, removing his hand from hers. Hermione clenched her jaw, wishing and wishing and wishing– “You would never agree so easily. Ron and I were prepared to spend near seventeen hours convincing you, then rushing to the spell point at the last second. In fact,” Harry continued, speculative tone becoming a little angry, “Considering what we stumbled across,” He jerked his head toward Remus, “I was beginning to wonder whether we’d be able to convince you at all.”

“Hermione,” Remus choked out, and Hermione bit her trembling lip, refusing to look at him.

“Mate,” Ron said incredulously, “She’s saying yes, let’s bloody well go! You said it yourself, we don’t have much time. The longer it takes, the harder the return trip is. You know what the book said.”

“Book?” Remus queried hoarsely, desperate, “What book?”

Harry didn’t say a word. Something came across his face too quickly for Hermione to recognise, but it seemed to have great effect for he rubbed at his left eye under his glasses – a movement that was identical to the one James made when his thoughts were coming at him from all angles. The fact that something like that was hereditary… well, Hermione so desperately wanted to tell him, tell the both of them. Her nephew Harry wasn’t under the kind of stress to warrant such a gesture; perhaps if his quidditch career got more serious. Against her role as aunt, Hermione almost wished it wouldn’t, gazing upon her best friend just now.

“You’ve been gone for seven weeks, Hermione.” Harry said, removing his hand from his face and looking straight at her, giving off waves of exhaustion with every word uttered as Ron resumed his seat at the table, “We were desperate. We knew you weren’t dead. Greyback would have delivered your body to us personally if you had been,” Remus, unfortunately all too familiar with the man who had turned him as a child, went pale. Greyback was one of the few Voldemort supporters who remained at large, even twenty years later.

Remus clenched his jaw, hand on Hermione gripping so tightly she’d almost certainly have bruises.

“We managed to kill Yaxley,” Ron said, taking over from Harry, who seemed to have difficulty continuing, staring at her with sad eyes, “It’s why we went back to Grimmauld Place at all – he was the last of them that knew about it. And before you rip into us,” Ron added at Hermione’s open mouth, her irritable frown, holding up a freckled hand to halt her retort, “We know that he could’ve told other Death Eaters, but most of his lot – the ones he worked with, I mean – were dead or in Azkaban. It was a risk we had to take.”

“And it paid off, didn’t it?” He continued, crossing his arms, “The books in that bloody house, I swear to Merlin that some of them are made from _ human skin–_”

“_Point is,_” Harry interrupted, shooting Ron a look that felt exasperated. It had been so long since she’d had to read their expressions, her nephews so different, that she couldn’t be quite sure. After all, Harry hadn’t lived with Vernon Dursley for years, self-taught in reining in his true feelings; and Ron hadn’t been eclipsed by extreme jealousy, he and Harry inseparable since they were toddlers. “That we searched the Black library for a tracking spell, maybe even a potion that would show us the way to you – but everything we tried came up empty until the Inflictor’s Envy.”

“Inflictor’s Envy?” Remus echoed, and Hermione started at the sound of his voice, so unexpected in this conversation. A rush of guilt shot through her – how easily she fell back into old habits, so caught up in herself and her two boys that everyone and everything else fell by the wayside.

“Yeah,” said Ron, looking like he’d just eaten some of Petunia’s rabbit stew. _ That _ had been a memorable evening. “Rotten spell, if you ask me. Needed us to replicate an ‘instrumental injury’ to find our intended subject. Harry – you know I’m rubbish at the trickier stuff – had to cast that curse at me that Dolohov hit you with at the Ministry, Hermione,” Ron shuddered, eyes drifting down to Hermione’s sternum, “Don’t fancy feeling that one again.”

“Ron,” Hermione whispered, touched. He waved her off.

“Then I sort of just knew where to look,” Ron said, shrugging, “Like the Deluminator, I just followed where I needed to go. It led us to _ this _ place; just on the outskirts, actually. We had to wait until dusk to ‘cross over the threshold’ – figured that meant your fence, which is where your ward perimeters end – and then, well. By the time we walked all the way to the house, it was bang in the middle of the night, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t think,” Remus began softly, tone weary, “that it was the wards you crossed over into.”

“How do you mean?” Harry asked, sitting up straighter, “What other threshold was there?”

“The one between worlds, I imagine,” Remus answered, almost blandly. Hermione figured it was the shock, perhaps some horror mixed in – what had they done? What had _ Hermione _ forced them to do, going through the Black library, stumbling across all manner of Dark Arts books? Performing a ritual – and there was no doubt in Hermione’s mind that it was a ritual, requiring a sacrifice like the imitation of an ‘instrumental injury’ – to find her?

“I think I might die,” Hermione stated tonelessly, staring at Remus, “if I don’t go with them.” She turned back to her friends. “‘Lost forever’ – were those the exact words?”

“Hermione,” Remus said, and something in his voice cracked, like he’d been pushed too far.

“Yes,” replied Harry, frowning, “But what’s this about worlds? I mean–” He sort of flapped his hand at her, sticking his thumb, pointer and middle fingers out as he did so.

“This your dream, or what?” Ron asked for him, frowning, “Don’t think we haven’t noticed that you look ancient, Hermione.”

“What?” Hermione replied, stunned, feeling the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, her shoulders tense up. “’_Ancient’?! _ Ron–” 

“You’re in another dimension.” Remus stated plainly, “One in which we defeated Voldemort in 1978.” 

“Remus!” Hermione scolded, because that truth led to others, which led to even more; truths that Hermione could not share for fear of her best friends not wanting to leave, for the destruction of her world as she knew it. _ Is it my world anymore? _ She thought brokenly, _ How could it be, now that I have to go back? _

“1978…” Harry muttered, “But,” he continued more loudly, “that’s before any of us were born.”

“Yes,” admitted Hermione, and her palms began to sweat as she fidgeted with her own fingers nervously, “Yes, we tracked down his horcruxes earlier on, managed to defeat him two years before your birthday, Harry.”

Harry’s frowned. “But then–”

“Yes.” Hermione said simply, shooting him a shaky smile, “Yes, they’re alive.”

“I–” But he could not continue, eyes flitting about the room in thought, not really seeing anything.

“Harry,” Ron murmured after a minute of silence, placing a wide palm on his friend’s shoulder.

“Right,” Harry coughed out, shaken, coming back to them. His hands were trembling, and he sounded wrecked. “Right, okay.”

Hermione looked to Remus, whose eyes had taken on a quality she couldn’t describe, not in all her years of knowing him. She might almost have called it pity, but it felt fuzzy when she tried it on her tongue, not right.

“How many hours do we have?” Hermione asked, trying to stay on track.

“At this rate I think we’ve got maybe ten left,” Ron estimated, not bothering to cast the Tempus charm, “Plenty of time, really.”

Hermione snorted, Ron smirking at her good-naturedly. His hand remained on Harry’s shoulder, squeezing it intermittently.

“You’re not going back alone,” Remus said, turning completely to his wife, hand leaving Hermione’s thigh, “After all that we’ve been through – after everything – I can’t stand by whilst you walk away.”

“She’ll have us,” Harry croaked out, looking up from his hands to catch Remus’s eye, “Hermione’s always had us.”

“I know,” Remus said patiently, pausing before he went on, “You’re not aware of it, but Hermione and I have been married for nineteen years. She’s one of the most important people in my life. I’m sure you understand,” Remus added at the intrigued looks on their faces, “You spent seven weeks without her and performed dark magic to get her back.” Looking at Hermione, he seemed to plead with her, “How could you ever think I wouldn’t do the same?”

“Remus,” whispered Hermione, hoping he understood everything that was in the name; _ our daughter is upstairs, _ and _ I love you so much, _ and _ I have to do this, _ and _ I’ve been away for too long, _ and _ my world needs me, _ and most staggering of all: _ I need my world. _

“It won’t be forever,” he said, looking at all three of them, “It can’t be. The circumstances of your arrival in 1977 won’t allow that, Hermione, and you know it.”

“What does he mean?” Ron asked, frowning again, “Hermione?” 

“It’s complicated,” she said, exhausted at the thought of explaining, “But I forged a place for myself here when I arrived, and the dimension might become unstable if I leave for too long a time.”

“Merlin’s baggy Y-fronts!” Ron exclaimed, and Hermione cringed at the volume – Lottie was still sleeping it seemed, but not for much longer with Ron yelling about, “You’ve got to be joking! Nothing is ever easy, is it?” He rubbed his hands over his face roughly, as if trying to wake up.

“It wasn’t exactly ‘easy’ getting here, Ron,” Harry pointed out, still shaken. He seemed to collect himself a little more in the face of what he was about to say, “Nothing is ever easy for us, or did you forget that we won a war only to fight another battle straight after?”

“Of course I bloody well didn’t!” Ron said incredulously, “But I thought it might be a nice change to have things run smoothly. Sorry for hoping. Merlin!”

“Yeah, well,” Harry said jerkily, “I’d love to stay here, I really would, Hermione. But people are dying back in our ‘world’, and I’m not about to sit around whilst that happens. So, are you coming?” He stood, staring her down. Ron joined him, jaw shifting with words unsaid – he’d officially reined in his temper, it seemed. Maybe her absence really had irrevocably changed things. She had always thought they’d carry on without her; weaker, maybe, but still strong.

And perhaps they had at first, like she did – carried on, made her life work for her. The attrition became too much, she knew, and maybe it had been the same for them. Perhaps they were all just as bad as each other, just as hopeless. A triangle without one of its sides was, after all, no longer a triangle. It wasn’t even a shape.

“Harry,” Hermione pleaded, looking between him and her husband. Her choice had felt so easy before, when imminent death had not been on the table, when Remus had not offered to join her; when she had been caught up in the moment of reunion.

_Well, don't they say that moments define you?_ she thought. Hermione used to abide by that philosophy much more when she was younger, when things felt black and white; when a moment could change the course of history. Moments _ had _ changed the course of history; but there would always be parts of people that betrayed those moments, when the easier way out showed itself and the tired, downtrodden soul inside crumbled under the pressure.

In that precise moment, Hermione wasn’t sure what she would have done – whether she would have stayed and faced death that night or gone with them and knowingly abandoned the life she’d made for herself forever – but Harry took the choice out of her hands. Seeing her hesitation, seeing the stubborn expression on Remus’s face, Harry sent a silent stunner her husband’s way.

Remus fell face-first onto the dinner table with a _ thunk_, Hermione slack-jawed in surprise.

Ron wasted no time, moving around the table to grab Hermione’s upper arm and tug her onto her feet. 

“Remus–!” she cried, but Ron pulled her away. There was a part of Hermione that felt relieved; her questions had been answered for her – for once in her life – but at what cost?

“Harry!” cried Hermione as they left the house. She looked behind her and saw the soft lights of the kitchen glow in the dark of the summer night. The cicadas carried on, screaming like they’d witnessed everything that had happened at Cheldon Farm and wanted the world to know it.

“I did what had to be done, Hermione!” Harry shouted from far in front. Ron was lagging, still dragging her along. She felt helpless to run with them, but she couldn’t help but stare back at her home in distress. “I’m sorry!”

Hermione knew she was distracted and crying – _my Lottie, my Remus, I’ll never see them again, _she wailed silently – but they still reached the edge of the farm’s acreage much more quickly than she would have expected. Her best friends may have been panting but it was Hermione who was gasping for air; it had been a long time since she’d run like this, at such short notice and such distance.

They Apparated onto the steps of Grimmauld Place, and Hermione couldn’t find her breath enough to mention that Sirius lived here, he was sleeping upstairs, and he’d surely hear them scramble through the door, heaving great lungfuls of air.

“Ron,” Hermione gasped, trying to tell him, pulling at his long-sleeved shirt. She only just realised it was one she remembered, fuzzy in her twenty year old memory; the dark purple t-shirt he’d put on over it clashed horribly with the long, army green sleeves.

She was unheard, however, as Ron pulled her out to the back of the house, down the still-mossy steps into the small backyard. Harry frowned at the black motorcycle in the corner, its metal gleaming in the moonlight.

Shaking himself out of it, he grabbed for her hand as well as Ron’s, and the three of them stood in the centre of the unkempt grass – Sirius had never been much of a gardener – waiting.

“What’s supposed to happen?” Hermione panted, still trying to regain her breath.

“Just wait,” Harry said, a determined expression on his face, “Wait a minute.”

And then, like Merlin himself had been pulling some kind of universal strings to time it perfectly, a few things happened at once: Remus and Lottie burst through the back door, faces aghast as Harry, Ron and Hermione lifted off of the grass, hovering a few inches in the air. Hermione felt a piercing pain in her sternum. Unable to help her cry of pain, she looked down to see her chest glowing a bright purple, throbbing in time to a loud, deafening heartbeat that was suddenly resounding in her ears. She looked to her left to see Ron grimacing, his chest also glowing purple. Harry’s grip on her hand was so hard her fingers were going numb.

“Mum!” Lottie shouted, as wind started to pick up, that heartbeat growing ever louder.

Hermione whipped her head to her daughter, eyes searching her young face, trying to commit it to memory. She would never see it again. The pain in her chest increased tenfold, and Hermione screamed as the light grew so bright that she had to close her eyes. There was a great yank to her left arm, her and Ron’s hands slipping before suddenly the three of them dropped from their levitation, landing on the hard ground, grit lodging itself under her fingernails and ears ringing from the sudden stop of that omniscient heartbeat.

Hermione groaned, pushing herself up slowly from her sprawl in the dirt, raising her head to look for the others. Harry was nearly on his feet, wand in hand, and Ron was right behind him – but beside her, Lottie coughed roughly. Remus was now unconscious, likely a side-effect of the stunner Harry had sent his way earlier.

“What,” Hermione began, whimpering at the continued burn of her curse scar, “what did you do, Lottie?”

Her daughter looked at her, fury on her face. She twisted her pleasant features into a snarl and spat, “What Dad was too scared to do, evidently.”

Hermione shook her head, feeling her tears fall down her cheeks. She watched as one dropped to the ground, splattering in the dirt beneath them. “You don’t know what you’ve done.”

Lottie didn’t know – couldn’t possibly – but _ Hermione _ knew; there was a reason Harry and Ron had come back to her, a reason that she had, for all intents and purposes, returned with them so easily. A reason she had tried to forget for twenty one years.

_ "My mother mentioned places in time and history: everyone has their place.” _ Marlene’s voice echoed in her head, _ “By arriving in our world, you forged your own. These things have a price, though.” _ Hermione stared at her daughter’s defiant expression, the set of her jaw identical to Hermione’s own. _“I suspect if you don't kill Voldemort, you might be facing expulsion. You might return to your own world." _

_ "Or I might die." _

_ "Yes," _ Marlene’s young smile looked cruel in Hermione’s memory, like she knew something Hermione didn’t, _ "Or that." _

“Lottie, no...” sobbed Hermione, overwhelmed. When she'd thought she wouldn’t see her daughter again, death had never been a part of that. Hermione’s death, maybe, but never Lottie’s. _ Not her, _ Hermione whimpered, _ anyone but her. _

But as had been the case when returning to a world where Death Eaters roamed free, that choice had been taken away from her. _No,_ she willed forcefully, _I refuse._ _I won’t let that happen._

“Yes,” Lottie gritted out, and blood slowly dripped down from the cut on her cheek, making her expression darker than Hermione had ever seen it, “I’m not going to let you go because of some stupid ritual.”

Hermione was reminded, very fiercely in that moment, that it would never be up to her what happened. Like when she had run from Greyback when she was nineteen, like when she had fallen in love with Remus, like when Regulus Black had overheard Sybil Trelawney’s prophecy; Hermione was helpless to the workings of the universe, a puppet in its very own Shakespearean tragedy. 

Now it seemed her daughter had joined her. Hermione’s heart sank pitifully into her stomach at the realisation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, that was a ride! Please let me know what you think, I love reading your comments. They kept me going through _Divergence_ and after, even if I never replied. Hopefully this was alright.


	2. Unearthings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been the worst year of my life, hands down, no exaggerations. I wish I could turn back time (oh, the irony). But I’m trying my best, and hopefully I can get back to writing a bit more. I also hope my writing is up to scratch, and apologise in advance if it isn’t.
> 
> The title of this chapter was decided long ago, and yet it holds massive significance to my life right now. So. Love that I somehow predicted 2020 for me.
> 
> For clarification, I haven’t read anything HP-related past book seven, and for the sake of my sanity will not be including Pottermore information in this fic. With that said, off we go!

As Hermione’s chest burned like she was suspended over an open flame, Harry’s wand – the beautiful holly with its phoenix feather core, repaired by the now-banished Elder Wand – pointed menacingly at her daughter.

“Who are you?” Its owner demanded, walking over to them almost without a sound, as if the darkness of his expression had influenced his stride. Hermione was suddenly and irrevocably reminded of a Severus Snape from long ago, cape billowing behind him through the corridors of a divided Hogwarts.

The absurdity of the thought did not move her, nor did it have her snorting like it might have even a day prior.

“Very funny,” Lottie remarked, rolling her eyes as she wiped at her right cheek, smearing the blood across her face and making it look like she’d been too enthusiastic with her last meal. All the thoughts they’d had when Hermione had been pregnant, about too-hard kicks to her uterine walls and searing pain in her abdomen with each full moon that passed… they all suddenly hit Hermione then and there, like her imagination’s werewolf-Lottie was superimposing itself over her real, true daughter. _Human. _Hermione reminded herself. _Witch._ “Did Fred and George put you up to this?”

“How d’you know George?” Ron asked from behind Harry, and there was a hostility in his tone that Hermione had long forgotten – something that, she now recalled, appeared at any mention of his fallen brother.

Lottie opened her mouth to say something in reply, but Remus groaned at just the right time, all of their heads snapping to him at once. In her shock and horror, Hermione had almost forgotten he had travelled with their daughter, to this old but new world – to the place Hermione had been trying to hide from him since 1977.

_Forget that,_ she thought as her head shook, curls falling into her eyes.

“Remus,” she murmured, crawling closer to him to rest a dark hand on his shoulder, which was clad with the faded Tornadoes shirt she’d bought him years ago when Harry had made the team. There had been some kind of gleam in his eye then, and although Hermione hadn’t been able to name it, she’d felt the inexplicable desire to capture that moment as best she could. Ergo, the Tornadoes shirt was born, with its now threadbare stitching, faded logo, and pulled collar. The charm to make the design animate had worn off a few months back. It’d been rather cheap, all things considered, and yet Remus cherished it much more than any of the expensive robes he’d bought with his galleons from the award of his Order of Merlin.

“Mia?” Remus croaked, his eyes squinting up at the moon in the sky, not yet full. Soon.

“Shut up with that ridiculous nickname,” Hermione snapped, though it held no bite as her hand moved from her husband’s shoulder to his pale face, cradling it as the pricks of his stubble rubbed against the meat of her palm.

“My, my,” he breathed, the slightest quirk to his lips at the memory, “How can I resist you?”

_This is absurd,_ Hermione thought, her mind screeching at her for ignoring the metaphorical hippogriff in the back garden of the House of Black. Choking down a laugh, another tear fell down her face as she leant forward, resting her forehead against Remus’s scratchy chin in relief. His left arm came up to gently cup the back of her head, fingers threading through her ringlets to land, warm and soft, against her tight scalp.

“That was the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.” Hermione said, trying to sound angry and unforgiving. It only seemed to come out tired as she lifted her head, looking into Remus’s soft green eyes.

“I don’t think it is.” He responded, wiping her tears away with a calloused thumb. They looked at each other a moment, their history laid out between them. Remus trying to kiss her when she was a professor, the Marauders playing their stupid glitter prank, Remus following her into a war, Remus making a bet on the birth of their own daughter; Remus, the world at his disposal, just wanting to teach, Remus almost getting the two of them caught when he’d shown up at her office on Hermione’s 37th birthday with a blindfold and no underwear; Remus loving her, marrying her, never leaving–

Inhaling sharply, Hermione turned to look at their daughter, whose expression was torn between disbelief and anger, like she couldn’t quite believe her mother had decided to be _nice,_ of all things.

“What is going on?” Lottie demanded, eyes narrowing between Hermione and Harry, who still had his wand pointed at her. “Why isn’t Ron blushing at the sight of you? And why is Harry using a glamour charm?” She addressed him solely now, raising an eyebrow, “The scar’s some pretty neat spell-work, but Ginny likes you just the way you are, you know.”

The only hint of surprise in Harry was the tiniest twitch of his wand.

“Lottie,” Hermione started sternly, jaw tight with something unnameable, niceness gone as she repeated her earlier words, “You’ve no idea what you’ve done.”

“I think I’ve followed you into some kind of Muggle mad house,” Her daughter snarked, eyebrow still raised.

“This isn’t a joke,” reprimanded Hermione, swallowing thickly at the thought, tears now dry on her cheeks. If it were a joke, only the most foolish of witch or wizard would think to try it. For all of his daring and risk-seeking behaviour, the most likely culprit in a prank these days – Sirius – was no fool. Not even he, still not calmed by a steady girlfriend and his own nieces and nephews to shape and mould, would dare to pretend that Hermione’s old friends had come to take her away from her life.

Perhaps it would not seem as cruel to everyone else, considering Hermione’s worried musings lately. They would not see this as a one-way trip, if it were a prank. They would not see it as the possible end of Lottie’s young life.

Her lungs ached as if a clamp had encircled them, tightening ever so slowly. All Hermione wanted to do was wake up from this nightmare and buy a month’s worth of Dreamless Sleep potion from the apothecary to avoid any repeats. However, the truth was dawning on her by the second, and Hermione fought through a new set of unshed tears to deliver it to her daughter.

“Not only did you disrupt a ritual, but you disrupted a ritual you knew _nothing_ about, and followed us to a place that is not only unforgiving, but _unknown_ to you.“ Anger swept through Hermione’s mind like spilt milk, fanning out in all directions, lazily glugging out of its confines. She glared at Lottie, ignoring the heat of Remus against her hip and his words of the evening prior that echoed in her mind, “You know better than to do anything of the sort, but you’ve been so desperate to grow up that you’ve forgotten everything your father and I have ever taught you!” A resentment for their current situation bubbled up inside Hermione. “This is not some adventure you’re old enough to go on. This is life or death, and much bigger than you.” _Than me, than any of us, _Hermione thought, fear splicing through her anger so keenly that she started to tremble.

Lottie’s face showed the beginnings of a storm and her lips parted to deliver what was sure to be a piercing blow to Hermione’s self-esteem when Harry spoke up.

“Hermione,” he warned, and Lottie snapped her mouth shut with an audible _click_ of her teeth, glaring at the ground as if Harry didn’t exist, contrary to the fact she’d just gone quiet for him.

Hermione’s heart gave a sharp pang. Lottie, with all of her stubbornness and derision for her mother, still had _some_ politeness in her. It reminded her of Remus, still clutching her quivering hand, and the way in which he had become so adept at hiding his dislike for people that she and her two best friends had never imagined him to possess the ire Sirius spoke of when it came to Dolores Umbridge.

At least, they had never assumed it of the Remus who had died on May second in this world, at the hand of a wizard who had long been locked up in Azkaban the last she’d heard of him. Dolohov had seemed inconsequential for so long, it was hard to remember a time when he had instilled her greatest fear in her: losing Remus.

Now – though Flitwick had disarmed him on that night – he was likely at large. Azkaban hadn’t been secure for long, and their news was outdated. At least, as far as Hermione could remember. It had been twenty-one years, after all.

“This–” Ron interrupted, mouth open and eyes wide, “This is your…”

“Daughter.” Harry finished quietly, jaw clenched. The back garden was silent, as though someone had placed a rather strong Silencing Charm on it, which was entirely possible now that they were back in a world where the Order of the Phoenix was but a memory.

The silence stretched on until Hermione looked up into Harry’s eyes. The emerald green was burning like the bright flames of Floo powder as Harry quietly finished his thought, “A daughter you were going to leave.”

They stared at each other, gazes unforgiving in their intensity. Harry, who had been unwillingly abandoned by his own parents, then left to neglect at the Dursley’s by a man who would later consider himself some sort of grandfather to him, despite doing so; there was no possible universe in which Harry could understand why she’d chosen her path – although part of her wanted to snap at her best friend that it was _him_ that had made the decision for her, when he had stunned Remus and dragged her to Grimmauld Place.

Though it was all moot, in the end. Hermione knew, deep down in her heart of hearts, that the most curious part of her would never have remained seated at her kitchen table. But trying to articulate the _why_ of that, even to herself, was too frightening to consider.

Harry seemed to have no problem pulling on that awful thread, though. His wand arm fell from its accusatory point at Lottie as he turned fully to Hermione, jaw tensed and nostrils flaring.

“What, coming with us on some mission was more important than keeping your daughter safe?” His glare focused on Remus, “And you… for this to happen again is–” Harry scoffed, though Hermione’s keen eyes noticed that when he turned his head away, wiping a weary hand across his face, it was a hand that came away damp with unshed tears. “You heard me the first time, Hermione,” Harry said, slightly choked, “Parents should never leave their kids, unless… unless they’ve got to.”

It was no time for her to get into the intricacies of parenthood with her best friend who’d had no shining examples of it in his life, though Hermione felt a need to defend herself. She would tell her two best friends the truth; she would have to explain that the fighting wasn’t just going to be against former Death Eaters, but an entity much more powerful than any of them had ever faced. One that Hermione had no book to explain.

“We don’t have time for this,” Ron interrupted, shooting Hermione a frown as she stood, his eyes drifting past her to her family sprawled ungainly on the patchy grass of Sirius’s neglected garden, “We can’t stay here.”

Though all Hermione wanted to do was rush forward and explain, she knew that Harry’s closed expression did not spell forgiveness in her near future. A spark of annoyance began to brew inside her – Harry would never understand what she had gone through to get back to them. Then when that had become impossible, what she had done to make their lives better. Would Harry forgive her when he found out he was happy here? That Hermione’s nephew had no scar, no PTSD, and parents who loved him? That he had never felt hunger pains so strong, he almost couldn’t get out of bed?

Hermione’s throat felt thick with everything left unsaid, the lump there feeling all too settled. Then Ron’s words sunk in, and though it irked her to admit it just to herself, Hermione agreed with him.

Harry and Ron coming to Grimmauld Place in the first instance had been dangerous, but now with five of them in this world it was almost a certainty they’d be discovered. If Hermione remembered correctly, most people had been travelling in pairs, only briefly meeting in clusters to share information. Too many people in one place for too long spelt resistance in their enemy’s eyes. No one was yet in the mood to play hero again so soon after the Final Battle. Besides, Hermione needed to get her bearings; _remember._

“How about that forest?” Ron suggested after a long silence, looking between the two of them, “Y’know, where I found the two of you?”

“No,” Hermione discarded the idea immediately, even if Ron got a slightly offended look on his face at her hastiness, “No, we can’t. There are too many work camps there. They’re probably using them again.”

“Work camps?” Lottie spoke up, standing now. She lent her father a hand, and he rose as well. Her expression was hesitantly curious. “Like from the second Muggle war?”

“Something like that,” Harry muttered darkly, throwing Remus a look. Hermione’s heart began a nervous fluttering in her chest as Remus’s eyes darted between them, calculating.

“Werewolves,” He guessed, exhaling long and low. Suddenly, a dry chuckle escaped him. “You never did tell me what it was like for us here.”

“Dad?” Lottie asked, frowning as she looked between her parents, “What are you talking about?”

“_Later,_” Hermione stressed, “There is so much to tell the both of you but we need to find somewhere safe, first.”

“Nowhere’s safe, Hermione,” Ron said, shaking his head like she should know this by now.

“Oh, you know what I mean!” she snapped, her anger rearing its ugly head, “Somewhere that I don’t have to worry another illegal ritual might take place!”

“There’s no legal or illegal these days, so I don’t know what she’s on about.” Ron muttered under his breath to Harry, whose lips seemed to twitch of their own accord despite his stormy expression.

“Look,” Ron said, now at his regular volume, “Let’s grab our stuff, yeah? We left in such a hurry the last time you were here, there’s bound to be some useful things lying around.”

“Don’t suppose you’ve still got that brilliant bag of yours, Hermione?” Harry asked, but his raised eyebrows and pursed lips indicated he knew exactly where that bag was – either lost during her escape from Greyback and his goons or back in the other world, sitting useless and pretty somewhere in the Lupins’ attic space.

The three of them started toward the back door, Remus and Lottie trailing behind. Though Harry and Ron were mutedly discussing what they thought they could snag from Sirius’s room without too much suspicion from future visitors, Hermione’s ears were tuned directly into her daughter’s quiet conversation with Remus.

“Dad, what in Merlin’s name is going on?” Lottie whispered waspishly.

“It’s best your mother tell you, I think,” Remus said, though his tone let on that he would wish nothing _but_ to tell Lottie himself, if only he also knew the ins and outs of what was happening. “There’s a lot you don’t know about her. Things that would surprise you.”

Lottie snorted quietly. “Yeah? Like to this Harry and Ron, she’s still their bossy aunt? Keeping things from them, too? Just like she is from me.”

Hermione breath hitched. When they reached the top of the staircase, she gave a mumbled excuse about needing the loo and turned on her heel towards the second floor bathroom. Closing the door sharply behind her, Hermione paused with her hand on the door knob before suddenly a silent sob escaped her. She leant her sweaty forehead against the aged wood and tried to ignore the pain in her chest, the burning in her throat, as she heard the other four knock about in the room next door – which had always belonged to Harry and Ron during their stays throughout Hogwarts.

“Harry–”

“Shove it, Ron.” Harry snapped, and there was a loud _thump_ as something was knocked to the floor.

Shaking her head and covering her ears with her palms, Hermione turned and leant against the door, tears trickling down her cheeks and her lips trembling.

_Wrong, _she thought, _wrong, wrong, wrong. _It was all wrong. There was no jubilant reunion, no sense of fulfilment or peace or even relief. Not anymore. All Hermione could feel was the grit under her nails and the pounding of her old, tired heart. She was better than this – than hiding away in the bathroom like it was first year again, too scared to fight back but too stubborn to change.

_You thought you were, _a calm sort of voice told her, and Hermione realised detachedly it sounded an awful lot like her mother – the one who knew the real her, and whom she hadn’t spoken to in decades. _But this isn’t something you can control, Hermione. For once, you can’t fix this._

_No, _she thought stubbornly, ignoring the raised voices from the other room and scrubbing at her worn out eyes, _I can. I will._

The voice, in her imagination as it was, said nothing.

Unlocking the door, Hermione cast a quick _Scourgify_ to hide the evidence of her tears and let her blankest expression settle onto her face.

Harry and Ron were arguing heatedly, but quietly, in the furthest corner of the bedroom when she entered, with Remus and Lottie standing beside the desks near the door. They were silent, and when Hermione and her daughter locked eyes for the briefest moment, Lottie simply turned away as if her mother didn’t exist at all.

Ignoring the lump in her throat’s renewed ache, Hermione swept her eyes around the room for something to latch onto. Lying, battered and dog-eared on the bedside of the unmade single bed, sat a book.

“Is that it?” Hermione asked, staring.

Her two friends ceased their conversation, Ron peering around Harry to take a look at the object that had captured her so.

“Yeah,” He said, eyeing her warily, “But now’s not the time to study, Hermione.”

She shot him a hard glare, ignoring his wince and mutter of “Didn’t miss that,” to walk over. She reached out her right hand to hover over the book’s binding, shifting until her palm was mere centimetres from the thick leather cover. It didn’t feel evil, necessarily; not like some of the books Hermione had stumbled across in the Black Library during their stay back when she was in her teens. But it didn’t feel safe, either. It felt friendly, of all things, which was the worry. It wasn’t in a book’s nature to be friendly, no matter how many times mean children throughout her childhood had told Hermione that they were her only companions. Books were impartial. They were neither waiting to be read nor feeling any particular way when sat on a shelf for years. They weren’t _sentient._

So for the pages to whisper to her, to feel warm and inviting, was a danger in and of itself.

“Remus,” Hermione called out quietly, turning to look at her husband, “Would you?”

His faded green eyes looked between her and the book. A small crease in his brow, he walked over, thumbs rubbing into his palms worriedly.

He leant into her to retrieve the tome once he had settled by her side, notes of fresh linen and the slightest hint of mulled wine reaching her nose before they were gone, Remus with them. He closed his eyes, hands gripping the book firmly and nostrils flaring.

“No spell,” He muttered, frowning more deeply, “No enchantments. No hostility.”

“No,” Hermione agreed, searching his face, “But there’s something.”

“Yes,” said Remus after a moment, opening his eyes to look at her, “Something, indeed.”

“Dad,” Lottie began, and they both turned to her, “What are you talking about?”

“You think someone put some sort of, I don’t know, compulsion charm on the book?” Harry asked, anger replaced by confusion, “But how would anyone know what had happened?”

“They’re all,” Ron glanced at Harry from the corner of his eyes, swallowing nervously, “y’know, _dead._”

“It’s not a compulsion charm,” Remus explained, frowning again, “It’s not anything.”

“But you _just _said it was something.” Harry argued, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“_Stop it,_” snapped Hermione, ripping the book from Remus’s hands and shoving it under her arm, “Just stop it. He’s real. _I’m _real. My daughter over there, _she’s real._”

Her best friend scrunched up his face, eyes widening and silver scar glinting as if in commiseration.

“The Hermione I know wouldn’t leave behind her own child for– for…” He looked around wildly, hands gesturing nonsense, “Well, for this!”

“THE HERMIONE YOU KNOW,” She thundered, her anger catapulting out of her like Harry had just locked the gates to their friendship, swinging the key as-you-please, “ISN’T EVEN A MOTHER!”

Breathing heavily, tears falling freely once more, Hermione dropped the book on the floor with a thud. “I find it _unbelievable_ that you don’t trust me.”

“That’s rich,” Harry said, expression mutinous, “Considering all our lives, you’ve never trusted _me._”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open like one of the clowns at those Muggle fairs, waiting for water to be sprayed in. She wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry. She wanted to turn her back on the man before her, who knew nothing and yet spoke as if he knew everything.

“I almost died for you,” Hermione said darkly, feeling her hands clench at her sides, “Multiple times. Times you don’t even know about.”

“I _did_ die for you,” Harry said through a clenched jaw, glaring into her, hair so messy it almost looked as if he’d just been freshly electrocuted, “And this is the thanks I get?”

“That’s enough!” exclaimed Ron, stepping between them with hard eyes, “Harry, lay off. Hermione, just–” The heat left him then, shoulders dropping.

“Look,” He said anew, eyes flitting between them, “This is not the time – _or place_–” he added as Harry opened his mouth to retort, “– to get into this. We need somewhere safe to settle, and we need it now. Fights about trust and sodding _sacrificial behaviour_ can bloody well wait, alright? Let’s grab some clothes, some food, and get the hell out of here.” He shot Remus a meaningful glance, “Books, too, if they’ll be helpful.”

“Where are we going to go?” Lottie spoke up quietly, gaze fixed on Harry with something akin to wonder. Hermione’s stomach squirmed uncomfortably.

“The Forest of Dean is out,” Ron announced, frowning, “Hogwarts still isn’t safe, neither are any of the Order’s safe houses. Harry?”

Harry shrugged moodily, and Hermione felt like they were thirteen again and fighting over a stupid broomstick, of all things. And she’d been right, hadn’t she? Sirius _had_ sent it. Just that… Sirius had been good, and kind, and loving. That part she’d gotten wrong.

However, Harry wasn’t perfect either, Hermione thought viciously. He’d loved Dumbledore and look how that had turned out – he’d been offered up like food in the Weasley household, gorged upon within minutes, never to be seen again. Roasted for hours, though; thought about for days, too. Prepared by the best.

But the best were rotten, Hermione knew. Dumbledore was fallible, just like Harry. Just like Sirius. Just like they all were. Dumbledore’s greatest weakness had been himself, guilt over his sister eating him alive so much so that he had been tempted by the Resurrection Stone.

_So were you, _a little voice piped up. Hermione shoved it back down to where it’d come from, those deep recesses of her mind rustling like leaves in the wind, disturbed by the brief commotion.

Out of those recesses came an idea, however.

“There is a clearing, some sort of field,” Hermione mused, trying to picture it exactly as it had been in 1978, “Dumbledore and I destroyed the diadem there.”

“The diadem?” Remus echoed, quirking a brow. Harry and Ron shared a look.

“One of Voldemort’s–…” She shot a look to her daughter, whose eyes narrowed at Hermione’s pause. They had agreed, all seven of them, that talk of how Voldemort had been planning immortality would die with them. Her daughter was not one of those seven. “The Lost Diadem of Ravenclaw,” Hermione explained quickly, trying to stay afloat amidst her own guilt. Despite the pact between them all, she hadn’t shared with anyone else the other horcruxes, had left so much out about the world she’d come from as well. It was a wonder Remus trusted her at all.

His pinched expression only exacerbated Hermione’s growing panic.

“This clearing, you think it’s safe?” asked Harry.

“Dumbledore gave me a story about accidentally apparating there when he was younger, but I didn’t believe him then and I still don’t.”

“That was like twenty years ago now, though, right?” Lottie questioned, raising her eyebrows, “It’s probably not safe anymore.”

“There was something about it,” Hermione continued, frowning now, “It just seemed odd that he needed to justify it. I had other, more important things in mind that day so I didn’t really bother to question him.”

Ron twisted his mouth in thought before turning abruptly to Harry.

“Mate? At this rate, I can’t see why not. It’s more to go on than a lot of our other plans.”

“Hermione,” Remus said, turning to her and ignoring Harry’s considering expression, “You and I both know that Dumbledore does what he thinks is best, which isn’t always in line with what you and I think is best.”

“Yes,” she replied, watching Harry come to his decision, “Harry and Ron know that, too. There was a much more public exposé of Dumbledore here.”

“We’ll go. You’ll have to apparate us. Maybe one at a time, to secure the area and avoid being caught as a group if something goes wrong.” Harry nodded, extracting his wand from his trousers and jerking his head at Hermione as if to signal departure, his ire temporarily paused. “You and I will go first, and you can come back for the others.”

Trying not to bristle at being ordered around by a nineteen year old, Hermione pulled out her wand, took a moment to scoop up the forgotten book at her feet, and held out her arm for Harry before she could start to doubt this haphazardly put together plan. Taking it, grip painful on her bicep, he steeled himself as Hermione disappeared them with a faint _pop._

Landing in the clearing was a little disorienting – namely, because Hermione hadn’t quite recovered from the ritual, it seemed, and stumbled forward as her sternum started up a fierce stinging. The book cushioned her fall some, and then Harry yanked her up by the arm just in time to apparate them across the field.

“Who goes there?” A voice called out, deep and hostile.

“_Fuck._” Harry muttered, casting a silent Disillusionment charm over the both of them. As a telltale slimy feeling spread over Hermione’s skin, she watched – from the shrubbery Harry had transported them to – what, at first glance, seemed to be snatchers.

“I thought the last of them abandoned their posts?” Hermione murmured so quietly that Harry inched closer to hear her.

“After Greyback began boasting about your capture, they started getting rowdy again. They’re not as dangerous as they used to be, but they’re no fun either.”

_Not as dangerous as they used to be? _Hermione thought, eyes narrowing, _Well, alright then._

“Wait, Hermione–!”

Forgoing subtlety, Hermione broke free from the shadows and shot a wide _Incarcerous_ around the two burly figures, strengthening the spell with one of her favourite personal additions.

Instead of thick ropes, steel bands burst from her wand, bending around the snatchers until they were locked into position and the two of them forced to kneel on the ground with the weight of their restraints.

“Oi!” The shorter one cried, whipping their head to and fro to find their attacker.

Satisfied that they were confined and unlikely to break free without assistance, Hermione removed the charm from her person and strode forward. The shorter snatcher had dark hair and dark eyes, and was entirely unfamiliar to her. The second, taller and – upon closer inspection – a woman, was not.

“Millicent Bulstrode.” Hermione said, staring.

Still trying to wriggle from her binds, Hermione’s former classmate glared up at her. After a moment, she frowned.

“Granger?”

“No,” Hermione reacted instinctively, though the hastiness with which she replied seemed to be all the confirmation that Millicent needed.

“Hermione Granger, in the flesh.” She rose her eyebrows, and then let out a rather high-pitched laugh, completely incongruous with her somewhat masculine physique. “Thought you were dead.”

“She _is_ dead.” Hermione said, silently begging Harry not to appear beside her and give everything away. “Heard Greyback got to her.”

Millicent laughed again. “Greyback is a liar.” She stopped suddenly, looking Hermione over appraisingly. “There’s something different about you, though. You don’t look yourself.”

Figuring the more she spoke, the more she’d give Millicent to run back to her friends with, Hermione simply stunned her and her companion. Their heads dropped, Millicent even falling onto her side on the dirty, washed out ground.

“We could’ve done that from afar.”

“Yes, well,” Hermione said, unable to answer as Harry stopped beside her, the two of them looking at the limp bodies of the snatchers.

“Ron and I have been having fun with where we leave these lot,” Harry said, removing her conjured metal in segments with a look of severe concentration. Hermione tried not to feel too smug at that, especially when he only continued minutes later, a little out of breath, “We’ve been apparating them to different areas in the Scottish Highlands. So I’ll do that with this bloke–” He jerked his head at the man, “And you do away with her. Let’s meet back here and then get the others.”

He knelt down beside the snatcher thug and they were gone instantly, Hermione blinking the echo of them away before she turned to her unconscious former classmate. Millicent hadn’t changed too much – she was still burly, still had a resting expression that spelled distaste; as if the pureblood teachings instilled in her from a young age were so subconscious by now, even her face couldn’t relax enough to look anything other than vaguely disgusted by its surroundings. She was exactly how Hermione remembered her, really – the only worrying thing being that Millicent had realised something was off about _Hermione _herself. It wasn’t all that surprising given she was decades older, but it still made her breath catch a little.

They were well out of their depths here; the past had been a cakewalk in comparison considering no one had known her there and all she’d had to do was create a new identity. Hermione snorted; the thought of that being _easy_ reminded her how incredibly odd her life was. Every other forty-something was more concerned with the newest in Diagon Alley gossip, or perhaps if they were academically inclined, the latest findings when it came to complex wandlore.

Shaking herself of her thoughts and ignoring the trembling of her legs, Hermione knelt down, grasped Millicent’s shoulder with her right hand and took a deep breath.

_Destination, determination and deliberation._

The mantra evened her breathing enough that, though loud, the apparation was successful.

_Best to get on with it, _Hermione thought absently, shoving Millicent away from her and taking a slightly guilty pleasure in the Scottish mud that splattered the Slytherin’s mean face. _What else is there to do?_

\---

Setting up the tent with Harry and Ron was a cruel flashback, as if someone had pushed her face-first into an unknown pensieve without warning, and all Hermione could do was watch it all unfold. The routine didn’t seem to have changed much, with the tent itself only looking slightly worse for wear; though as she entered Hermione remembered its insides were a little different. This was the tent Bill had given them after the Malfoy Manor debacle, not the tent they’d gone horcrux hunting in. It was larger, with another four bunk beds, a slightly longer kitchen that included a small dining table fit for six, and a living area in the centre of the tent; a beaten up two-seater sofa with two mismatched armchairs anchored around an empty fireplace. The lamps were out, so it was cold and dark. The kitchen looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since Hermione’s last scrub down months ago, and Harry and Ron’s bunk was as untidy as she expected it to be.

Biting her lip, Hermione walked softly over to her own bottom bunk, where her things were neatly piled on top of the lumpy, patchwork quilt she’d once declared her own. There were the clothes she’d left behind; underwear, a few long-sleeved tops, and a pair of jeans; as well as a couple of battered looking books, which definitely didn’t hold the answers her teenage self had been so desperate for; and lastly the hand-held mirror her father had given her for her sixteenth birthday, the vines engraved on the frame feeling worn down against the pads of Hermione’s aged fingers, the silver cold but harmless against her lycanthropic skin.

_Oh, Dad,_ she thought, her throat feeling thick and her body aching with a sudden exhaustion, _if you could see me now._

“We’ll have to go into town for some supplies,” Ron announced. Hermione turned, clearing her throat of its stickiness as quietly as she could. Her best friend was frowning down into his own duffle. “I’m running low on socks.”

Hermione laughed wetly – she couldn’t help it, not when Ron looked so concerned about socks, of all things. “Getting blisters, are you?” She asked, feeling her cheeks ache from the rare smile.

“You clearly haven’t gone without socks, Hermione. I’d rather face Voldemort again than have to walk another day just me and my trainers.” He raised his eyebrows, turning to her. His own bunk was perpendicular to hers. “I don’t reckon you’d fancy the smell of them, either.”

“Perhaps,” Hermione admitted, still smiling, “Aside from your socks, we do need some other things.” Picking up the ratty henley that was resting on top of her belongings, she frowned, “I haven’t got much, and Remus and Lottie will need some clothes.”

“Food, too,” Remus said softly, staring at her with an unidentifiable expression on his face. Hermione swallowed heavily, smile leaving her face quicker than she’d like.

“We’ll go in the morning,” said Harry, shuffling around his bed. He cast a silent _Scourgify_ on himself, his sweaty face suddenly dry, hair nowhere near as greasy. The spells would do in a tough spot but there was a reason they had elaborate bathrooms at Hogwarts; it had always been funny to Hermione, who’d come from a Muggle home, to see the way magic helped, but it didn’t _fix._ Magical folk still needed bathrooms, and the Wizarding Wireless Network, and owls… magic didn’t fix anything, much to a young Hermione’s dismay.

There was a relief to that, however. Hermione had spent much of her childhood wanting to make a difference, to have an impact on the world. Maybe it was selfish, but in hindsight it would’ve been awful to enter the Wizarding World and discover that it was all well and truly perfect.

There were some things, though, like showers and brushing your teeth… well, Hermione could’ve done with the extra twenty minutes in the morning, even if it was to go over her court notes before flooing into the Ministry. Or, in the case of now, to simply flop onto her bed and not wake up for a day.

Her night time rituals were important to her though, so she cast her cleaning spells with a sigh, swallowing down the bitter taste of soap in her mouth that came with them, and changed into the clean henley. Her pyjamas from the night previous were sweaty and dirty and already starting to smell, so she left them on the floor at the foot of her bed to deal with tomorrow, before she hopped in. Shooting off a quick _Tempus,_ Hermione’s heart sank when it told her they only had just over two hours until sunrise. Though late summer and much warmer than the dreaded winter winds, she recalled that the daylight hours were their biggest hindrance. It was hard to go about unseen, but the enemy expected movement during the night; travelling randomly and at unexpected times was best.

Hermione sighed, turning so her back was to the rest of the tent, wand tight in hand. It seemed the rest of the group were equally as tired as she was, as they all began the process of cleaning and getting into their bunks.

“Get in the top bunk, Charlie,” Remus said quietly, loud in the almost silent tent.

“I prefer the bottom bunk, Dad,” she grumbled, though there was hardly any heat to her proclamation. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut tightly, shapes forming behind the blacks of her eyelids.

“Yes, well,” he hesitated, and Hermione imagined he wondered how much he should tell his teenage daughter about the reality of the situation, “It’s safer this way.”

Upon waking a few hours later, Hermione was grateful that Remus hadn’t had to prove that statement. He was lying on his stomach, wand loose in his left hand, and mouth open. Lottie was almost in the exact same position, though no wand could be seen and her hair was such a riot that Hermione couldn’t figure out whether her mouth was also ajar, or whether locks of curly hair had simply tangled together to obscure any discernible shape at all.

Harry was up already, pottering around the kitchen silently. Hermione padded over to the dining table, settling into what seemed to be the creakiest chair of the lot. Her hair, luckily, had been braided for some time and only required the quickest of spells to tighten them – unluckily, this meant she had full unobstructed view of her best friend’s mulish face.

Trying not to remember so suddenly the silence that had plagued them during Ron’s absence eons ago, Hermione simply accepted the water he handed her and fiddled with the mug’s handle whilst the crunch of stale bread echoed around the tent in tandem with Ron’s soft snores.

By the time Harry had sat down opposite her, his stubborn expression had turned sour and the dark circles that clung so desperately under his eyes were even deeper than yesterday’s. Harry hadn’t slept.

“Two of us will have to scout the area,” He said quietly, biting into the hard bread with a grimace, “Ron and I will do it, and no–” He looked up at her, her with her mouth open to object, “It’s not a good idea for you to come.”

“I’m sorry,” Hermione blurted out, exhaling shakily, “About yesterday.”

“This hasn’t got anything to do with yesterday, Hermione,” said Harry, “It’s got to do with the fact that they–” He jerked a thumb at the bunk where her husband and daughter slept, “–clearly know nothing about what it’s like to live through what we’ve lived through.” He looked troubled, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. “You need to tell them.”

Hermione swallowed thickly, twisting her mouth about in worry. Harry sat and waited, but she didn’t have anything for him. He was right, she did need to tell them. By following her here, they’d opened a can of worms that not even Hermione could put a lid on, and she felt she was pretty well-versed in controlling out of control situations. Worms of this magnitude were unprecedented, though, and Hermione’s metaphorical lids weren’t sturdy enough to keep them all in.

Harry sighed heavily, breaking Hermione out of her thoughts. “I don’t know what any of this means, and I don’t know if I can do that again.” They locked eyes, Lily’s green piercing through Hermione’s chest like the talons of a particularly vengeful hippogriff, “Running around the English countryside with no plan, no answers, with the wild hope that we’ll figure it all out. I’m tired, Hermione,” He frowned, shoulders slumping just a little, “I know we have to keep going, but I thought–” He rubbed at his eyes under his old and worn glasses, clenching his jaw as he did so, “–I thought the horcruxes were it. No one ever told me _this_ would keep going. _Dumbledore _never–”

The tent was still except for the chirping of the morning’s birds and Ron’s hypnotic heavy breathing.

“He’s still alive, back there?” Harry asked quietly, “What would he say, if he knew?”

Hermione didn’t have the strength to tell him that Dumbledore _did_ know. This was a teenager with an idolatry for the wizard who’d first told him about his magical parents; and the exhausted hope that perhaps Dumbledore’s deceptions had indeed been the only way the end of Harry’s life could have played out, no matter that he survived the killing curse again. No matter that he’s still trying to fight for what he thinks is right.

A wave of love came over Hermione then, and all she wanted to do was jump across that table and squeeze Harry in the biggest hug she could muster, squeeze him until he asked her to please get off of him, because his ribs were starting to ache.

“I don’t know what Dumbledore would say, Harry,” Hermione said, ignoring the twinge of guilt at Harry’s now shuttered expression, “But I do know your parents would be right beside you now, if they could. I know that Sirius, if he was here, would die twelve times over if it meant you could have the life here that you had… well, that I’ve known you to have for the past eighteen years.”

She stretched her legs out, capturing one of Harry’s ankles between her own and begging him to understand that she was on his side, always.

“I’m scared too,” Hermione huffed out a laugh at Harry’s sceptical expression, “I know, it’s been a long time since I admitted it, but I am. I’ve brought my family here, and this world is likely worse than I remember. There’s no book for this, there’s no logical explanation.” Her words caught in her chest, and Hermione exhaled long and low, fighting for something unknown – something that would guide her, maybe.

Harry was waiting – endlessly waiting, it seemed, for her to spout some book passage about fighting against guerrilla warfare, or remember some cure-all spell for the end of the world – but as Hermione’s lips began to form an answer even she didn’t have, Ron’s snores cut off abruptly and he sat up, chest heaving with his gasps for air. Upon seeing the two of them seated at the table, a horrid half-eaten breakfast between them and likely twin looks of shock, he fell back into his meagre covers with a relieved sigh.

“I’m telling you,” he said breathlessly to the room, staring at nothing, “If we make it out of this, I’ll be chaining the two of you to me with a bonding spell or something.”

“Please don’t,” Harry said wryly, getting up from his chair, “I’ve had enough weird bonds to last me a lifetime.”

Ron grunted in agreement, pushing back his bedsheets and swinging his legs out of bed.

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but let’s skip breakfast.” He said, tugging on a threadbare pair of grey socks, though Hermione surmised they were likely white to start with.

“Please be careful.” Hermione begged them barely ten minutes later as they shouldered on their tattered jackets, the denim barely holding on to the stitching.

“We will,” Harry said, shooting her a some sort of look from underneath his now greasy bangs, “We’ll be back in a few hours.”

With their departure, Hermione could only put off the inevitable for so long. Thoughts racing, she skimmed through the books she’d left behind years ago, remembering them with every word she devoured and recalling the frustrations of her nineteen year old self. After that, she took inventory of everything they had: her things, Harry’s clothes, Ron’s clothes, some old, creased Quidditch magazines likely from Hogwarts, the Deluminator, Harry and Ron’s wristwatches from Mrs Weasley, and the tent with all of its accessories. It wasn’t much, and Hermione wasn’t even sure what else they would need aside from more clothes and some better food, but at least they knew now what they had.

It was by this point, perhaps when just over an hour had passed, that she figured it was high time that the rest of their group wake. She made her way over to her husband, still lying on his stomach.

“Remus,” Hermione murmured once she was close enough, rubbing his shoulder slowly, “Remus…”

“I’m awake,” He said, voice clear and most definitely not sleepy. His eyes opened, alert, as he turned. His gaze landed on her face, indecipherable, “They’ve gone?”

“To grab a few things, yes,” Hermione confirmed, shifting back far enough so Remus could sit up. Tentatively, she settled herself next to him, the covers between them.

The words would not come, no matter how many times Hermione tried to formulate them in her mind, practise them silently before parting her lips and– nothing. It was like Remus had cast a _Silencio_ upon her, and the humiliation that came with all of that lingered like a dark shadow in the night, ready to strike at a moment’s weakness. Her cheeks burned suddenly, and Remus was doing nothing to quell her embarrassment, which felt most unlike him.

“I’m trying to work out why you wanted to come back here.” He said speculatively, breaking the silence. He ducked his head in an attempt to catch her eyes, “Because we’ve not yet been here a day, and I think you already want to leave.”

The air escaped her lungs in one fell swoop, a punch to the gut like no other.

There were times, early on in their marriage, that Hermione had sat by herself and wondered what Remus saw in her; not in an insecure sort of way, because Hermione was confident enough in herself to know she wasn’t entirely undesirable, but because he saw right through Hermione Huxley, with all of the silly misnomers. He saw through Hermione Granger, quick to grab a book to hide behind whilst her wand did the talking. He saw through Wizen Huxley, whose face wasn’t anything but stormy. Remus knew Hermione at her core, and he still stayed.

Hermione, who could be impulsive when it came to her friends but who valued logic and hard work and wanted to _earn_ things. A day did not go by that Hermione could sit idle, letting the world turn around her.

Remus knew, somehow, what Hermione was always too scared to let herself know: that she would never fit in again. The Harry and Ron she knew were gone, and this new world – now her world – would always see her as someone fearless and absolute. What would they say, if she didn’t fight on and on and on? If she didn’t stand before them and demand change?

Taking a deep breath, closing her eyes and feeling her lungs expand and release, Hermione cherished this one moment; where she was laid bare before Remus and where he loved her still. Then, she began. “This is bigger than returning to the world I was born in.” Opening her eyes, Hermione stared at the scars on Remus’s face; faded and old, his stubble hiding the worst of her own viciousness. “I don’t have answers, not anymore. I don’t know what we have to do, or where we have to go, and I don’t know if you and Lottie are going to be alright.” Hermione tugged on her braids, feeling the stretch on her scalp and relishing in the slight pull, the controlled sting. “And I don’t know whether staying here or going back is the thing I’m supposed to do_._”

“Supposed?” Remus repeated, frowning, arms going up to pull her hands from twisting her braids, “Is someone telling you what to do?”

“No, no,” Hermione rushed to clarify, squeezing Remus’s hands in her own, “No, that’s the _problem._ I don’t have anyone to tell me what I should do.”

His eyes searched her face for something she couldn’t name, roving across the crow’s feet by her eyes and the faintest frown lines on her forehead.

“What aren’t you saying, Hermione?” Remus asked her quietly, now staring at her in a way that had Hermione shifting nervously. He never looked at her like this unless it was something too important to faff around about. He liked to humour her; for the most part he found her huffing and puffing endearing.

However, it dawned on her that the nature of this particular kind of stare meant that Remus had been silently observing her for some time, and had deduced that something very big and very bad was afoot.

It was one thing to suspect, though, and another to actually know. Remus knew, Hermione thought, but perhaps he had forgotten, or maybe it hadn’t seemed significant.

The two of them hadn’t realised what they’d done, following Hermione here. This time there was no ‘right thing to do’, no ‘greater good’ to follow. Harry didn’t know, Dumbledore was dead, and the Marauders were in a world that knew nothing of this one’s devastation. Hermione was stuck, which wasn’t altogether that unusual, except this time she was stuck with two other people who would suffer the consequences of her actions, however unintentional. So no, she didn’t know what to do but to go on – to keep hiding, to keep fighting against an insurmountable number of foe even if it did nothing.

Yet, just like staying, going back would solve nothing. She would go on, and for what? To remember her friends, fighting until a timely _Avada Kedavra_ left them in the dirt? It had been different in the 70s, when Hermione had been able to live in ignorance. Just like in Remus’s case, it was one thing to suspect but another entirely to actually know. She’d suspected that Harry and Ron and all of their allies had won, lived full lives without her. Now she knew that nothing had changed, that the fight was leaving them even if the war was endless. It had only been a matter of time, she now realised, before they truly would have been dead to her.

_That’s not acceptable, _she thought, chest tight, thinking of the eventuality but also remembering her friends and family back home. _None of this is acceptable. This isn’t a choice I can make._

_That’s why it’s being forced on you, _some part of her realised, _that’s why you’re here, and they’re here, and everything feels like it’s ending._

“Do you remember,” she began, chewing at the inside of her cheek to stop the errant running of her mind, eyes doggedly focusing on Remus’s left ear, “back in 1978, when I told the lot of you about the prophecy?”

Her husband frowned at the seemingly odd change of subject, eyes darting around the tent as if to search for the memory. “I remember… I remember you telling me about my son.”

Hermione stopped short of her jumbled explanation, pulse pounding in her ears, whooshes of blood rushing through her veins; of course that’s what Remus would remember from that conversation, particularly after Voldemort’s defeat. How could she expect him to follow her train of thought, to even recall the prophecy in detail? He hadn’t had it hanging over his head for years, like her and the boys had; like she had, when she'd realised she had essentially taken Harry’s place and thought herself likely to die; like she’d been reminded of, when Remus and Lottie had burst into the Black’s backyard and disrupted the ritual.

It made what she was about to say so much harder, knowing that the son – Teddy – was here for his father to meet and yet, it could all be snatched away so quickly.

“Right. Of course.” Pausing to take a breath, she continued on, “I never really said much about this, because… well, it was behind us. But,” Hermione exhaled long and low, her eyes now fixing on Remus’s own, umber against moss, “Marlene knew about this world before any of you, because her mother had worked in the Department of Mysteries at the time.”

“Yes,” Remus said slowly, brows furrowing barely a centimetre, “They’d told you about the Diverter.”

“Exactly,” she confirmed, skin prickling with nonexistent goosebumps, “And I mentioned it, once, when I told the six of you about the prophecy. Please,” she added, shaking Remus’s clasped hands beseechingly, “Please try to remember.”

“Hermione…” Remus said slowly, frowning more deeply, “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“I’ve been trying to prove,” Hermione said, feeling her chin tremble, desperately trying not to let the tears fall, “To prove to something, to someone, that I can stay with you.”

“Of course you can stay with us,” consoled Remus, eyes narrowing in concern, his hands moving to rub her shoulders, “Hermione, of course you can.”

“You don’t understand,” She whispered, feeling her heart begin to race, her fingers numb, her lips uncontrollable, “I was never meant to travel to the past– to the dimension I found myself in. I was never meant to! Marlene said it, she said ‘If you don’t kill Voldemort, you might face expulsion’, she said it, Remus!”

“Marlene doesn’t know everything–”

“Expulsion, or _death,_” Hermione emphasised, eyes wide, “The diverter was previously untested magic, it’s not meant to exist; it _doesn’t_ exist in our world, not now that Marlene works for the Department of Mysteries.”

“Listen to me,” Remus demanded firmly, forgoing comfort to grip her arms tightly, fingers likely to form bruises, “It has been twenty-one years and _nothing._ No expulsions, no deaths, no signs of _anything._ We’re only in this now because Harry and Ron did what they did.”

“We don’t know that,” Hermione insisted, “I can’t risk you and Lottie on some kind of coincidence.”

Remus’s head jerked back, his hands squeezing her even more tightly. “Lottie?”

“Remus,” Hermione said, voice hard, pins and needles in her fingers now that the blood was rushing to them again so quickly, jaw clenched in preparation of the fallout, “She is here, in this world. You’re here, in a world that you don’t belong. What do you have to do to prove you can stay?” She shook her head, braids falling behind her shoulders now, “I don’t want to find out, and we can’t wait another twenty-one years for someone to find that book and perform that ritual so that the both of you can go back to the Cheldon Farm you know.”

He stared at her.

“Is this what you’ve been thinking about, all these years?”

“Remus–”

“Is this why you can’t talk to Charlie? Why you’re working all day every day, stressed beyond belief?”

“This… this isn’t about me,” Hermione said weakly, pushing back from her husband, moving to stand a few feet away. Her eyes darted up to her daughter, who still remained turned away, her breathing even. Still; Hermione realised that perhaps this conversation had not taken place where it should have, despite the urgency that still ran through her veins, the panic that would not leave her now that she knew what to call it. “And this isn’t the place to discuss that right now. I’m trying to tell you that I don’t know what to do, but I do know that I can’t see the two of you die because I used the Diverter decades ago.”

They both paused, looking at each other.

“Alright.” Remus said after another long moment, rising from the bed himself to stand. His naked feet looked vulnerable in the lamp light of the tent. Hermione just wanted to crawl into bed with him and forget that any of this had happened, her abused heart thumping tirelessly at the prospect, “So we go back.”

“Yes,” said Hermione resolutely, “Dying is not an option.”

Remus nodded, running a hand through his thick hair, “Agreed.”

Not knowing what else to do, Hermione strode forward quickly and barrelled into Remus, wrapping her arms around his waist and digging her forehead into his chest. His chin came to rest upon her crown, his arms converging behind her until she was fully encased in him, their embrace all-consuming, her senses coming to life with the inhalation of his heady scent and the brush of his clothes against her palms.

“I love you.” Hermione mumbled into Remus’s cotton shirt, feeling the vibration of his chest as he returned the sentiment.

“And I, you.”

His arms tightened around her, and they stayed like that until Lottie awoke, rolling her eyes as if in disapproval.

Hermione thought the slight quirk to her lips said otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reminder: not everything is as it seems. 
> 
> Hopefully this was alright, I feel rusty as hell. Doing my best, friends.


End file.
